


I Still Have Plans To Go To Mexico

by JiM, MJ (mjr91)



Series: I Still Have Plans to Go To Mexico [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-15
Updated: 2000-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 72,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11330868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiM/pseuds/JiM, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: See story parts for details.





	I Still Have Plans To Go To Mexico

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico by MJ and JiM

Title: "Plans" - A prequel to "I Still Have Plans to go to Mexico"  
Author: JiM  
Date: 1/99  
Pairing: M/Sk, first-time  
Rating: R  
Note: Many thanks to Pares for her stellar ideas, the ones that always strike after 11 pm. Also to MJ, who always inspires, cajoles, encourages and boots in the ass, at prudently judged intervals, and Karen, who can spot a useless modifier at 50 paces.  
"I Still Have Plans to go to Mexico" can be found at the /X Archive and on MJ's page at: http://members.aol.com/MJR91/ficintro.html (eventually)  
Archive: Yes to /X, all others, please ask.  
Feedback: 

* * *

****

"Plans"  
by JiM

Mulder wandered through the connecting door, wearing only his sweat pants, vigorously toweling at his hair. "Scully?" he asked, voice muffled. "Have you got anything I can wear? Someone's aftershave leaked all over my suitcase and everything's soaked in some 'Obsession' knock off."

"Do you and Scully often share clothes, Agent Mulder?", a voice growled from the region of the desk.

Mulder's arms flailed wildly as he ripped the towel off his head and stared in horror at his boss, who was sitting calmly at the desk, papers spread before him, tie loose and collar hanging open. "Uh, sir, um..." Mulder said intelligently.

"I understand that the tailored masculine look is in for women these days, but I confess, I'm not able to see you in the scoop-necked things she usually wears," Walter Skinner continued thoughtfully. If Mulder had been able to look directly at his boss, he would have seen the demonic twinkle in Skinner's eye. It wasn't often that he could reduce Mulder to stammering or silence with anything less than a full-volumed bellow or an involuntary commitment. He let the sweet moment stretch as long as he could, then took pity on Mulder and let one side of his mouth quirk.

"Scully offered to trade rooms with me. She doesn't need a king-sized bed and my room didn't have one; that's about all I can sleep on." Skinner got up abruptly, trying not to notice how good Mulder looked, standing there, hair tousled, skin sparkling with water droplets in the early evening sunlight that streamed through the windows. He rummaged in his suitcase for a moment, then came up with a black t-shirt that he tossed to Mulder.

"Here. Wear that." Mulder smiled his thanks, then slipped it over his head and Skinner found his mouth going dry. The shirt was loose on Mulder, but the dark color merely made him look spare and elegant, like an heirloom blade waiting for the touch of his hand. The intimacy of seeing Mulder wearing his clothes was ... jesus.

"Need anything else, Mulder?" Skinner grated.

The younger man shook his head, completely over his embarrassment, good humor back in evidence. "Nope. The concierge swore she'd have everything dry cleaned and back to me by 7 am. She even lent me a toothbrush. But I suspect I will not be welcome in the restaurant downstairs without a tie."

"Or underwear," Skinner suggested, then immediately wished for one well-aimed lightning bolt to obliterate him. 

Nothing happened except for Mulder's startled look, followed by a quirky grin. "Well, it was either the natural look or wandering around smelling like a Turkish cathouse, sir."

"I see," Skinner said lamely.

"Scully and I are ordering from room service, sir. Care to join us?"

"Uh, no, Mulder. I've got plans," Skinner lied smoothly. "Thanks," he added, wondering if he had really seen a flash of disappointment in those light-colored eyes. 

Mulder merely nodded then retreated politely through the connecting door he'd cannoned through earlier. The sound of the lock tumbling into place sounded very loud in the golden silence left in Mulder's wake.

* * * 

An hour later, downstairs in the hotel's excellent restaurant, Walter Skinner realized that he simply wasn't very good at eating alone. Which was a shame, because he'd been doing it quite a lot in the past two years. Some people are able to dine alone in public and appear completely comfortable and unselfconscious, at peace with whatever thoughts might be passing through their own heads. Not he. And he simply couldn't bring himself to the point of opening a book at the table, as he'd seen some other solitary diners do, frankly admitting that there was nothing outside themselves worth paying attention to. His early training held good, his paperback remained upstairs and he was left to stare steadily at the candle on his table and to wonder why he hadn't accepted Mulder's friendly invitation. 

The answer was simple, really; he'd wanted it too much. He wasn't certain when it had begun, this fascination, this tight focus on Mulder. It was dangerous; it was stupid; it was hopeless; he was helpless to stop it. All he could do was try to keep from falling prey to it entirely. Since Mulder and Scully had been reassigned to the X-files, it had been a constant battle to maintain the proper lines between him and his subordinates. They had shared so much, they knew such intimate, dark secrets about one another... He despaired of ever having a normal life again; no, that wasn't true, he realized. He was mourning the death of his desire to have that normal life. And part of that normal life involved not being attracted to his younger straight male subordinate, he reminded himself and sighed, signing the receipt for dinner.

Back upstairs, he changed, shucking his professional skin with a sense of relief that was new. Tired; he was getting tired with the constant struggle, fighting the fight that no one else seemed to know was going on. He knew he'd never advance any higher than his current position; between the murder charges, the prostitute and his open support of Mulder's quixotic crusade, he had hit his ceiling. Why stay? he asked himself as he pulled on shorts and the other t-shirt he'd brought. This one was black, too. It occurred to him that he ought to think about expanding his wardrobe choices. 

Why *did* he stay? Because the fight wasn't over yet. The battle hadn't been lost or won and Walter Skinner was constitutionally unable to leave the field until it was. He knew it was this personality quirk that had resulted in Skinners being buried on battlefields across the world. And Mulder? Mulder wouldn't leave the field until all the ashes had settled and he could begin piecing together the wreckage for more answers.

Skinner found himself smiling a little grimly at the image of himself amidst the ruins, handing Mulder a dust pan and broom and telling him to make sure he filled out the paperwork correctly. Paperwork. He sighed again and sat down at the desk to fill out and review his minimum daily requirement of bureaucratic fiber. Next door, he could hear the faint sounds of conversation and the television. Mulder and Scully were there, going over the day's work, watching TV, just being together. Strangely, he didn't feel excluded or lonely; their voices soothed him and he bent to his work with something like good cheer.

Some time later, during which the stack on his left hand had efficiently moved to his right, there was a snick!, then a knock on the connecting door between his room and Mulder's. For one moment, he actually thought about not answering it and pretending that he wasn't there. Good sense prevailed, however, and he got up and opened the door.

Mulder stood there, looking unnaturally grave, despite the sweatpants and t-shirt. His t-shirt. Oh, jesus, his brain was melting again, oozing down to pool in his....

"Mulder, what can I do for you?"

"A moment of your time, sir. A case has just come to my attention and I'd like you to review a 302 so that I can investigate further." Mulder waved a file folder at him. 

Work. Of course. What were you expecting, Walter? Why else would this man come to your door at this time of night except to ask for permission to go haring off to some other previously undiscovered mad tea party, for which he will expect the FBI to reimburse him when his car melts, his laptop becomes possessed or he contracts yet another heretofore unknown virus of probable alien origin. Skinner sighed at the ironically dull routine of it all and waved Mulder into his room.

"Give me the gist of it," he nearly growled, not willing to stare at one more piece of official-looking paper.

Mulder draped himself on top of the low bureau that held the one lamp and the TV and said, "It seems that members of the local artisan population have been experiencing a peculiar nocturnal phenomenon, sir." Mulder paused for breath and Skinner wondered idly what lunacy he was about to be asked to countenance this time. Werewolves? A rain of stones? Perhaps some nice old-fashioned vampirism? Mulder was speaking again.

"It seems that they go to bed with work orders for luxury goods to be filled the following day. When they come into their shops the next morning, they're finding the work already done for them."

Skinner stared at Mulder, hoping there was a point to this. He tried very hard not to be distracted by watching the fingers of Mulder's right hand idly stroking his own abdomen. He pushed himself to say something intelligent. "You're suggesting that someone is breaking in and doing the work for them?"

Mulder nodded seriously and continued speaking, although Skinner noticed that the younger man wouldn't actually look up and meet his eye. "We can only speculate as to the reason why, sir," he said gravely.

"Mulder? Why is the FBI interested in this? What crime is being committed here?"

"Aside from very probably breaking and entering? Hard to say, sir." There was a suspicious gleam in Mulder's eye that made Skinner ask suddenly, "Mulder. Those artisans - what do they do?"

"They're shoemakers, sir."

An awful suspicion was stealing over Walter Skinner.

"And the luxury goods they're finding made for them in the morning are...?"

"Shoes, sir." Mulder said, his eyes limpid with sincerity. "Incredibly finely detailed work, I'm told."

Impossibly, Skinner felt his lips beginning to twitch.

"And you suspect...?"

"Elves, sir," Mulder said earnestly.

There was a moment of terrible silence, like the last breath of wind on a mountain before the avalanche and then the stress of the day caught him and Walter Skinner was roaring with laughter. He staggered to the end of his bed and collapsed on it, still howling. Every time he calmed down slightly, he looked at Mulder and the delighted mischief in the other man's eyes set him off again.

God, it felt good to let go like this. The sound of Mulder's laughter was the sound of water in a dry land and he soaked it into himself, letting his own laughter well up to meet it. Eventually, it died down to undignified snorts and chuckles and he was able to gasp out, "I needed a good laugh. You're a lunatic, you know that?" in a voice warm with the affection he was never able to show for his agents in the office.

"Yes, sir, I've been told," the other man was grinning at him. "Of course, I have official paperwork that says I'm not actually crazy, which is the benefit of spending a weekend in five-point restraints."

Abruptly sobered by the reminder of that whole painful episode, Skinner sat up and polished his glasses on the tail of his t-shirt. He didn't notice Mulder's expression softening as he looked at his boss. "So, does that mean you'll sign the 302?" he asked briskly. 

Skinner recovered himself and stared at his agent. "Mulder -- let's try something new and different -- tell me, in very small English words, what you're doing here, spinning me this line of bullshit at ...," he checked his watch, "11 pm?"

"I'm trying to seduce you, sir," Mulder said quietly. "But you're not being too helpful," he added plaintively.

Skinner looked at his watch again, half-expecting it to be dribbling off his wrist in some Dali-esque signal that his life had glided into the surreal while he had been helplessly giggling on the bed. Nope. Still 11:02 on a hot night in St Louis and Fox Mulder was still standing there, leaning against his TV, only now he was looking at him like a child outside a candy shop. Remembering some of Mulder's other case reports, Skinner said, "Mulder, if I stabbed you right now, what color would you bleed?"

"That's not quite the response I was hoping for, sir."

"I can't even begin to imagine what kind of response you were hoping for when you start a seduction with a request to investigate elves." Skinner got up and crossed the room to the connecting door, which brought him far too close to Mulder's dangerous heat, but it couldn't be helped. 

He held the door between the rooms open and launched into the same speech he had used over the years with various members of the secretarial pool and the occasional fellow agent. "I'm very flattered, but it's impossible...,". Mulder didn't move.

"It's not impossible, sir, just highly improbable." There was that grin again, the one that annoyed him so much because it made him want to do anything Mulder wanted, just to see that light in those sad eyes.

"It's against regs; it makes us blackmail targets - we might as well invite your Cigarette-Smoking friend to watch; it's insane; and what makes you think I'm interested in you?"

Mulder's grin grew a touch deeper, as if he had heard something that pleased him in Skinner's growling plaint. "Because if you weren't, that would have been the first and only reason you mentioned."

Skinner slumped against the edge of the door. "Shit. Mulder, this isn't fair. I can't say yes. You know that."

Mulder was suddenly standing right in front of him. "Yes, you can." Then he was reaching out and pulling Skinner's head the last few inches forward until their lips met. Unnoticed, Skinner's hand began tightening on the door as Mulder's mouth moved across his, tongue darting out shyly to flicker at his boss' closed lips until they opened and let him slip inside. There was an unpracticed sweetness to Mulder's kiss that demanded that Walter Skinner bring his hands up to cradle Mulder's head and slowly deepen the draught, rather than give in to the sudden raging demand for *more* from his long-restrained body.

He broke the kiss, retreating regretfully from the fullness of the sensation and Mulder's lips. His mind still gibbered about the insanity of the whole situation, but it was a faint voice crying in the wilderness of having everything he'd ever wanted locked in his arms, panting and flushed and bright-eyed. Then Mulder brought one hand up to cup the side of his head and misjudged the distance, catching Skinner's glasses and driving them painfully into the bridge of his nose. He let go of Mulder, eyes watering madly, the pain sheeting across his consciousness. He felt his nose gingerly, hoping he wouldn't have to explain a broken nose to anyone in the St. Louis office in the morning.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Mulder was pulling his head up and inspecting the damage. Skinner batted his hands away and carefully took off his glasses, folded them and put them on top of the TV. Mulder watched him warily, with a kind of bruised defensiveness that tugged at Skinner's heart even as points south demanded that he rip Mulder's clothes off and drag the man to bed *now*.

"Shut up," he suggested and kissed the younger man again. It was even better the second time and Skinner's sensible objections became mute in the face of Mulder's hard, hot body pressed against him, vibrating with noiseless moans. This time when he drew back, Mulder looked positively drunk and that luminous smile was back on his face. 

But something prompted Skinner to ask, "Have you ever done this before?"

"Kissed someone? Or seduced my boss?"

"Smartass," Skinner growled, smiling into the impish face that still had that odd defensiveness hovering in those hazel eyes. "Ever made love to a man?" Mulder shook his head slowly, looking embarrassed. 

Walter Skinner blinked. Then he thought for a very long moment. Good sense voted that he pat Mulder on the head and send him back to his own room. Good sense was immediately throttled when Mulder stirred restively against him, rubbing gently against his aching cock. Walter sorted quickly through most of the lines he had heard used with virgins and discarded them all as patronizing, stupid or simply inapplicable. Mulder certainly wasn't too young to know what he was doing, he wasn't afraid of anything except rejection and he was apparently very sure of what he wanted. In the end, Skinner just smiled into the anxious eyes and said, "You're gonna love this."

And Mulder did. He was vocal in his appreciation; his range was impressive. He sighed, moaned, hummed, purred and shouted his pleasure. Skinner couldn't help feeling a bit smug as the usually-reserved Mulder writhed across his bed, begging for more of his touch. He accepted everything his lover did with a kind of open wonder that told Skinner far more about the man's romantic history than he would have wanted known.

It was only when he gently urged Mulder over onto his stomach that he saw the younger man tense, fingers locking in the sheets in nervousness rather than erotic tension. "Mulder. Relax. We're not going to do that tonight. We're not going to do anything you don't want to do." He saw his words rippling down Mulder's back, letting his formerly boneless arousal flood back as the younger man whispered, "I trust you."

The pleasure of hearing those words was as sharp as pain, and Skinner took a deep breath before kissing the star-shaped scar on one shoulder. "I know. But we don't have what we need and there's a lot of fun to be had yet. Some other time," he promised, beginning to kiss his way down the long muscular back. A long sigh of pleasure was his answer.

Mulder tasted sharp and sweet and green, freshly showered; like he hadn't spent the day pounding pavement and desktops as he and Scully tried to unravel the mess the St. Louis office had made of a comparatively simple X-file. Mulder's scent grew richer as Skinner brushed his unshaven chin over the curve of that firm ass, nuzzling happily. Mulder's gasp was as much a sensual pleasure as the taste and feel of that summer-silk skin beneath Walter's tongue. He ran his hands caressingly up Mulder's legs, gently urging him to spread them, then he settled in between them and applied himself to the task of showing Mulder all the fun to be had, as promised. That, or driving him insane with lust; he wasn't particular, as long as it convinced Mulder to come back to his bed and never leave it.

Mulder's response to reaming was encouraging. He shuddered and mumbled, tossed his head and finally begged when Skinner's tongue began stroking lovingly around his balls. "Please....you're trying to kill me, aren't you? They're gonna find me dead, in your bed. Please...." Skinner finally took pity on him and sat up, after another friendly nuzzle at Mulder's fine ass. One hand on Mulder's hip was all the invitation needed and the young man turned over with a groan. Mulder's cock was slender and long and curved yearningly up towards his quivering abdomen. Skinner stopped to admire it, mouth already watering at the thought of tasting it again. Mulder's rasping whisper, "Skinner...", was all he needed to hear and he was unleashed, licking, sucking, nipping, and stroking. It seemed like no more than a moment later that Mulder was shouting and arching off the bed, flooding his mouth with saltwater-cinnamon flavored cream.

Mulder lay there, panting and motionless as Skinner gave his cock a last proprietary caress before sliding up the bed to kiss him deeply. Those hazel eyes were shining when he pulled back to look at his lover. "Well?" Skinner asked with a grin, not at all afraid of the answer.

"Can I try that?"

"Oh yeah," he breathed, as Mulder pushed him flat and began his own explorations.

They were both brisk and business-like when they met Scully for breakfast, twenty minutes late. Mulder chattered unceasingly, mind flickering from topic to topic, which Scully appeared to follow with practiced ease. Skinner kept trying to school the idiotic grin from his face with a noticeable lack of success, if the tiny smirk on Scully's perfectly molded lips was any indication. He trusted her not to report them or do anything to hurt Mulder; he hoped that she would grow to trust him in the same way.

Shit. The situation called for a plan; he started thinking as he drank his second cup of coffee. It was insane, it was dangerous, and he hadn't felt this happy in a long time. It was a feeling he was willing to trade just about everything else in his life to keep. 

Finis

Feedback cheerfully accepted: 

 

* * *

 

A prequel to "I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico" by MJ and JiM "Plans" (JiM's prequel) from Mulder's POV...

Reply to 

"Mexico" can be found at ArchiveX or my website (http://members.aol.com/mjr91/ficintro.html)  
Spoilers: Not really; just some very offhand references to "Tooms," "Fire," "Sleepless," "Pusher" / "Kitsunegari", "Avatar," and a couple of others.  
Thanks to JiM and Kass.

* * *

"Saint Louis Blues"  
by MJ

Have you ever really, really wanted something? And realized that you couldn't have it? Worse yet, have no idea how you would go about getting it if you could have it? For some kids, it's a pony. For some adults, it's a sailboat, or chucking work and taking a hiking trip around the world. For me, the impossible desire of a good two or three years was named Walter Skinner. Walter S. Skinner, FBI Assistant Director, muscular idol and Hoover Building collective lust object. Also... previously married, though he'd never worn a ring and he'd never mentioned his wife. Not until... well, that's another story. Worse, my immediate supervisor. Worse yet, if he was married, more likely than not he was straight, which I certainly wasn't. Well, I'm still not, of course... but we're talking about then, not now.

Now, it's not that I didn't like women. Lord knows I let Phoebe and Diana walk all over me. But I'd always been interested in guys, as much if not more. Not that I'd ever done anything about it. Hell, I know what you're thinking - he went to Oxford, for crying out loud, the home of institutional queerness, and didn't get laid? Well, in a word... no. The word "chickenshit" comes to mind, looking back at it. Hmm, maybe I shouldn't say I never did anything. I was in a couple of fairly drunken clinches with a classmate or two, and I got as far as going to bed with one guy and jerking each other off. But that's as far as it went. Hey, I said "chickenshit" and I meant it.

Getting assigned to working with Alex Krycek - now, there I almost managed to cure myself of an annoying case of near virginity. From the moment that rat bastard made big puppy eyes at me with those gorgeous green eyes it was all I could do not to rip off my clothes. That's why I kept pushing him off of me - I wanted the bastard so badly I scared myself. He kept waiting for me to make a play for him and I was scared to death to do it, I was scared to death of making a fool of myself. What the hell did I know about making a pass at another guy? Not a damn thing. So I kept waiting for him to actually come on to me, and he never did; he just kept flirting. Then Duane Barry abducted Scully, and Krycek disappeared... and I was really, really glad that I'd never gotten involved with him. I think I'd have killed myself if I thought I'd been having an affair with someone responsible for what had happened to Scully.

As the whole Krycek thing slowly buried itself in the back of my memory, I found myself noticing Walter Skinner. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed him in the first place; I guess I'd just been too intimidated at being supervised by one of the most infamous hardnoses in the Bureau. I had no idea then that he was one of the people responsible for rescuing me from Bill Patterson's supervision in the first place, that he'd been looking to move me under his direct supervision for two years before it actually happened. It wasn't so much anything to do with Krycek that made me notice Walter Skinner, I think, as the fact that I was finally starting not to be scared of him, finally realizing that he just might be a human being.- not to mention the most studworthy thing on two legs. Then came that business with Sharon, his soon- to-be ex-wife. That was when I realized that the man made me seriously weak in the knees. It was also when I started wondering if the interest he'd begun taking in me might be something more than purely professional, though he never did anything overt that would have proved it.

Then came Saint Louis. It was a trip I hadn't really been looking forward to going on. The heat in Saint Louis had been broadcast over the whole country as hot and wet enough to steam shrimp. The regional office was undergoing restructuring, and there was only a slight fiasco in the way the agents assigned to the task had been handling a case that obviously involved demon- possessed toys in the sloppiest way possible. Hell, you'd think the slobs had never heard of a possessed ventriloquist's dummy before. Two agents were in the hospital from failure to watch "Twilight Zone" reruns and old Karen Black TV movies. The safari wardrobe needed to survive the heat wasn't being furnished by the Bureau, meaning showing up in Saint Louis in... I cringe to think of it... wool serge. I guess there's no need to go over my infamous sartorial habits. I'd already ruined a couple of thousand-dollar suits in bad conditions, but damn it, I wasn't going to be able to claim expenses for clothing ruined by cruddy weather. That'd go about as far with Accounting as the suit I'd tried claiming when Eugene Tooms slimed it.

So anyway, Scully and I went out to Saint Louis to show the regionals how it's done - I can't believe there were no "Night Stalker" watchers in that office - and Skinner came along to supervise the mess they were making of the reorganization. I was glad he'd come along, for once. If I said, "You're going after a demonically possessed ventriloquist's dummy, and do you carry holy water around with you?" without major backup, I'd be stomped into the pavement. If Skinner said, "All agents on this case will carry crucifixes and load silver bullets," they'd damn well carry crucifixes and silver bullets and like it. We flew in the day before meeting with the regionals, planning to review first and gang up on them the next day. Plans, however, got slightly rearranged, first by the baggage compartment on the plane and then by the rest of the universe.

If I ever find the bastard whose cologne leaked on my suitcase, so help me, there'll be a bullet through him. Scully nearly choked on the fumes from that drugstore Calvin Klein knockoff in our cab, and I was seriously afraid of permanent clothing discoloration, not to mention smelling like a Calcutta bordello for the duration. Skinner got picked up by the SAC and dropped off at the hotel. He didn't get poisoned, the lucky bastard. Anyway, we got to the hotel, and I spent the better part of an hour finding what was salvagable of what I'd packed - a pair of sweats, my shoes and running shoes, and a pair of running shorts -and bribing the concierge into rushing the rest of my stuff to the cleaners for an immediate miracle. I showered to get the cruddiness of the mixture of airplane air circulation, cheap cologne, and the Saint Louis humidity off of me, pulled on the sweats, and tried to figure out what I'd do for a shirt for the evening. I obviously wasn't dining downstairs in the hotel's four-star dining room in sweats, but Scully and I do room service a lot anyway - nonetheless, I wanted to cover up. Hotel air conditioning can get pretty fierce.

Scully always had this habit of sleeping in big, sloppy men's T-shirts, nearly big enough for her to use as a sleeping bag. I figured she'd have at least two of them in her suitcase. So I knocked on the door between our rooms and asked the obvious - "Scully? Have you got anything I can wear?"

"Do you and Scully often share clothes, Agent Mulder?"

Damn. Busted. During my clothing fiasco, Skinner had made off with Scully's room. No funky T-shirt with National Wildlife Federation logos tonight. Meanwhile, I was standing, pretty much damp and half-naked, right in front of Walter Skinner, the object of most of my overage wet dreams. He tossed me one of his own shirts, a black T-shirt that was only about two sizes too large, which I pulled on gratefully. The air conditioning was blasting cold enough on my damp skin to play hell with my nipples... and I wasn't sure if Skinner was checking me out or if it was my imagination working overtime. I invited him to join Scully and me for our usual room service picnic in my room. He turned me down, other plans... having the SAC filleted and grilled over charcoal with fresh lime juice and cilantro was my guess. I didn't know whether to be sad, or to be relieved. I was already in his clothing; did I really want him sitting beside me on a bed, munching his way through... ribs? Corn on the cob? Corn dogs? Celery stalks? Blue raspberry ice pops? It seemed like a pretty bad idea, especially if I got carried away in front of Scully... maybe it was a good thing he was dining elsewhere. Imagining Walter Skinner's lips surrounding that ice pop made me glad my sweats were pretty loose.

I heard him come back after dinner. Scully and I were sitting on the bed I wasn't planning to sleep in, packing away way too much food, looking at the file, talking bullshit, and watching TV. I figured the TV, against the wall between my room and Skinner's, would drown out conversation. "Scully, I have a problem."

"What now, Mulder?"

"What would you think if I said I was trying to think of how to proposition someone but I wasn't sure how to go about it?"

She blanched. "Uh, Mulder, look, I, well..."

"Not you, Scully." Her relief was palpable. I didn't like that at all - I mean, I didn't want my partner, but it's still a blow to your vanity if someone goes "eeew" at you, and she pretty much had. Still, it made the rest of the discussion just a bit easier. "it's a guy."

Scully just stared at me. "Jesus, Mulder, you do like to spring things on me, don't you?" She sipped at a cup of herbal tea, musing. "You know, that's not exactly my area of expertise. Besides - who down here did you figure is available? I hadn't heard any scuttlebutt about anyone."

"It's not my area of expertise either, Scully. I just figure you know more about guys than I do. And I'm playing a hunch here, Scully. Trust me. Either I'm crazy or he's checked me out."

"Those two statements aren't mutually exclusive, Mulder."

"I love you too, Scully. Come on, give me a break. I need advice here."

Anyway, I finally got her to give me some useful ideas. I mean, they weren't perfect. I had to fix them some. But they were enough to give me a plan. Once I had that, the rest was going to be relatively easy. Or so I figured. Providing, of course, that I didn't just lose my nerve. And that I didn't get killed. The latter was unlikely, but still within the realm of possibility. Even if he was as interested as I thought he was, he was still my supervisor - and the man who invented the phrase "by the book." Besides, even if he didn't kill me, he could still play by the damned rules and say "no". And then I might have to kill myself out of sheer humiliation. If he turned me down, I'd still have to go spend the rest of the trip in the next room, and go back to the office with him. So that left me with one choice only - land him on the first try.

Where I was getting the bravery - or foolhardiness - from, I don't quite know. It might have been from that absolute certainty that Skinner had been looking at me like I was dessert for a minute. It might have been from standing around for over two years drooling on my shoes at Walter Skinner's nearly perfect body. It might have been the knowledge that I was sitting on a bed wearing his clothing with him in the very next room, and that he knew it too. I was going to wind up in bed with Walter Skinner before midnight or die trying. There was one way to crack that regulation G-man exterior; now, if I could just make it work.

Humor. If I could just disarm him, get him to laugh - Walter Skinner laughing just might get me a place in the history books; no one, to my knowledge, had ever caused it to happen. I'd seen him give a sort of mild chuckle at jokes told by other agents that caused everyone else in the room to fall down on their butts laughing. Sometimes, when he was in good mood, he could be seen with the corners, just the corners, of his lips curving up about one degree. The man probably could sit through an entire Marx Brothers movie without expression and then say something like, "Yeah, that was pretty funny" at the end. I, however, was going to do it. Tonight. In the next room. I decided to borrow from a joke Scully had once pulled on me. She'd baited me into falling for an obviously phony case. That was it. I was gonna get him, but good.

I thought. I made notes. I ran a couple of ideas past a hysterically amused Scully. I don't for a moment think I'm the comedian of the century; I suspect she was laughing at me. Who else ever wrote out and rehearsed a pickup? Finally, I threw her out of the room. I knew she'd have loved to see me try it out in real life; she'd said as much. I didn't bother pointing out that she'd probably have paid to watch the followup if it worked as intended. I tried to avoid thinking about the "what comes after" part, actually. I was much better acquainted with the theory than the practice. A couple of fumbling drunken groping and petting sessions over ten years before, a few bi movies I'd seen on video because I didn't have the guts to rent or buy any of the all-male ones, and a hell of a lot of masturbation fantasies involving either Alex or Skinner didn't exactly make me the voice of experience here. I had experience with women, but that wasn't quite the same thing. I knew this much - don't use your teeth when you go down. Phoebe'd gone to bed with me one night after we'd had a fight earlier, and she took her side of it out on me during a blow job. Beyond that, things were a little more doubtful.

I knocked on the connecting door, which I discovered he'd locked, and waited. After what felt like an eternity but was probably thirty seconds at most, the door opened. I nearly hit the floor. Skinner was in a T-shirt exactly like the one I'd borrowed, but instead of being somewhat loose, as the one I wore was on me, this one was nearly stretched to the limit over the pecs I'd nearly slobbered on in the Bureau gym dozens of times. And he was wearing gym shorts. The really little ones that you can get away with swimming in if you're wearing a jock. The only thing worse would have been spandex biking shorts; I'd have thrown my plot out of the window and just lunged if he'd been wearing those. I tried remembering to breathe.

"Mulder, what can I do for you?"

"A moment of your time, sir. A case has just come to my attention and I'd like you to review a 302 so that I can investigate further." I waved a folder in his face, hoping to look convincing. He looked slightly distressed. Good. He thought I was going to ruin his evening with a pile of paperwork at eleven at night.

"Give me the gist of it," he nearly growled, looking like I'd just offered to take him to see a Reticulan landing site.

I propped myself against some fancy hotel furniture, the kind you wish you had in your own home but you can never find it in regular furniture stores, and prepared to brief him just the same way I'd run it past a convulsing Scully. "It seems that members of the local artisan population have been experiencing a peculiar nocturnal phenomenon, sir. It seems that they go to bed with work orders for luxury goods to be filled the following day. When they come into their shops the next morning, they're finding the work already done for them."

"You're suggesting that someone is breaking in and doing the work for them?" Oh, yeah, he was hanging on to every word I was saying. That, or he was staring at something I was doing that involved my fingers and the waistband on the sweats, a couple of inches above what I hoped to God he thought was the promised land. I checked again. He was staring. He was utterly transfixed, in fact. I've never seen anyone in my life try so hard not to look at something.

"Why is the FBI interested in this? What crime is being committed here?" Funny he should ask. Is sodomy still on the books in the state of Missouri? I'm not sure about that, but there was a serious attempt going on in that room. "Mulder. Those artisans - what do they do?"

"They're shoemakers, sir." He was catching on. He was still going to lose it when I hurled the punchline.

"And you suspect...?"

"Elves, sir." My best straight-line delivery, the one I'd used on Tom Colton about Reticulan blue-plate specials.

A moment of total silence. For one second, I thought the forces of the Universe were about to send down lightning and slay me on the spot -I'd obviously failed miserably. Was my will in order? Had I left my porn collection to Frohike like I'd promised? Had I remembered to appoint Byers as caretaker of my tropical fish? I was certain I'd better die now, because I didn't want to deal with the suffering I'd endure eternally for blowing this.

Then - it hit. Sort of like the way a hailstorm hits on a beautiful summer day and you can't think where all that ice is coming from. Uncontrollable laughter coming out of Walter Skinner's mouth, from all they way down in his chest. I wished I'd had a video camera to prove it was possible. Down on the bed, pounding the mattress - hell, he thought it was funnier than I did. I suddenly thought about the Monty Python routine about the fatal joke that killed anyone who read it because they died laughing, and I started giggling myself.

"You're a lunatic, you know that?" He was finally able to talk again.

"Yes, sir, I've been told. Of course, I have official paperwork that says I'm not actually crazy, which is the benefit of spending a weekend in five-point restraints." Well, I thought it was a good line. He didn't. I guess his remembering what had happened there was an accidental bucket of cold water; I'd gotten over the whole thing, but I didn't realize how sensitive he must still have felt about what he'd done back then. Hell, if I'd 've been him I'd have done the same thing. I figured I'd better bring it back around to the part of the routine he'd liked. "So, does that mean you'll sign the 302?"

"Mulder -- let's try something new and different -- tell me, in very small English words, what you're doing here, spinning me this line of bullshit at ...," he checked his watch, "11 pm?"

Shit, hand me the gun. I figured I must have blown it. Some line from a poem I'd been force fed at Oxford, it must have been Shakespeare, about the joys of death popped into my head. No point bullshitting -dead is dead. I decided to 'fess up. "I'm trying to seduce you, sir. But you're not being too helpful."

"I can't even begin to imagine what kind of response you were hoping for when you start a seduction with a request to investigate elves." Skinner got up and crossed the room to the connecting door. I'd hoped for him falling at my feet, I wanted to tell him. I'd nearly gotten it, too; if he'd been standing closer to me, he would have collapsed right there when he started laughing. "I'm very flattered, but it's impossible...".

Ha. That line was canned, wasn't it? I had an edge. I was out of my standup comic mode now; I'd just heard something that reminded me of an old interrogation concept. Stock answers can be thrown by the right responses to them, since the other person isn't thinking. The ball was back in my court, and I'd just grown a foot taller. "It's not impossible, sir, just highly improbable."

"It's against regs; it makes us blackmail targets - we might as well invite your Cigarette-Smoking friend to watch; it's insane; and what makes you think I'm interested in you?"

For five thousand dollars and a new car... that was entirely the wrong -or should I say right - order. He wanted this, all right, and I still had a chance at it. "Because if you weren't, that would have been the first - and only - reason you mentioned." A psych degree does have its uses.

Skinner slumped against the edge of the door. "Shit. Mulder, this isn't fair. I can't say yes. You know that."

"Yes, you can." Hell, you only live once, and I had Walter Skinner pretty much where I wanted him. I wasn't sure of a lot of the practical application of my interest, but I could figure out how to do the next move with no trouble at all. I reached over, pulled his face right up against me, and went for broke. I had my tongue in his mouth, his hands were in my hair, and I was ready to come in my pants. For half a second I thought it was Christmas.

Now remember, I'm the only law enforcement officer in the world who gets shot by his partner when he corners the bad guy. I'm the only human being on this planet who runs out of gas in the middle of the Antarctic. I can blow anything if I try hard enough. Which explains why I reached up to this gorgeous sonofabitch who was standing close enough for me to feel that he's got a titanium hard-on under his shorts, trying to get him close enough for a full-body meld, and managed to hit him just about full-force in the glasses. I've gotten hit in the glasses. The balls aren't the only place you can catch someone hard enough to stun them. Glasses into the face will do it every time. Where the hell was the nearest gun? I was ready to shoot myself without any help from Modell.

I've been told that the "clumsy helpless guy" routine gets some women turned on. It must work on some men too, because rather than throw me out the door at this point, Walter took off his glasses - probably a self-defense tactic - and grabbed me. Come to think of it, that might also have been self-defense. Anyhow, he grabbed me, told me to shut up - I must have said something stupid, which would be predictable for me - and kissed me hard enough to induce serious brain damage from oxygen deprivation. The only part of my body that wasn't turning to Jello was hard enough to perform some of those crazy stunts I've heard about Hindu fakirs doing with them. I'd just about decided that it was Christmas and my birthday put together when Walter decided to ask me just what I didn't want to answer.

"Have you ever done this before?"

"Kissed someone? Or seduced my boss?"

"Ever made love to a man?" I'm almost as good at "sheepish" as I am at "clumsy helpless guy." I think I actually blushed. I decided that if he told me to be a good boy and go home, I'd kill him first and then shoot myself just to avoid explaining at the hearing. Fortunately for my dislike of committing homicide on anyone but Alex Krycek or Cancerman, Walter must have liked "sheepish" nearly as much as he liked "clumsy," because he just looked at me, grinned, and announced, "You're gonna love this."

One thing I'll tell you - the man has never lied to me about anything that mattered in the long run. I don't even remember how we got naked or wound up in bed. I don't even think I knew my own name at the time. I know I was having a religious experience, because I think I was speaking in tongues. I'm surprised hotel security didn't show up to find out what all the noise was about. If this was what sex was supposed to feel like, I wanted my money back on the past twenty years, because all the rest of my experience had obviously just wasted my time. I'd heard the phrase "incoherent with lust," I'd read it in the occasional porn novel, but if you'd asked me what it meant, I wouldn't have been able to tell you before that evening. Walter was doing things to me that I'd never even known to imagine - and admitting that when you're over 35 and have a lot of porn under your belt is damn embarrassing.

Nipples. I had no idea about nipples, you know that? Not men's, that is. Women's, yeah. Women's are pretty nice; I'd already figured that much out. But I didn't know about mine; I guess Phoebe and Diana didn't know, either. I almost hit the ceiling when Walter leaned down and started working on them. I'd never felt anything like it, and he didn't show any sign of quitting, either. It was... incredible, and I was hard as a rock, and I wanted to come, but I couldn't. I kept trying to grind myself into him, to get some kind of friction going to get me off, but all Walter'd do was back off, grin, and go, "not yet." I'd have begged for mercy if I could have made any intelligible sounds, but I just kept moaning. Finally, he moved down and started nibbling his way down my chest. I didn't know about navels, either - anyone's. Walter must have gotten some kind of really advanced sex ed class, was all I could figure - not that I was doing much figuring at the moment. I just flailed around like a carp on a hot rock and hoped that you really couldn't die from too much of a good thing.

I was waiting to see what happened next; I'd figured Walter was going to move down a few more inches and start working on my cock. Wrong... I was over on my stomach so fast I didn't even know I'd turned over. Hands working over my shoulders, my sides, kneading at my ass. God, Walter's got these incredible hands. Grip strength like nobody's business, which must be from gripping barbells... and then my body suddenly figured out that yeah, I was ass-end up with a guy hung like a mule, because he's just damn big everywhere, he is... and it just must not have been as into the fun as I was, because I tensed up and nearly flipped out, probably scared about the sudden thought of not only my first time, but, well, like I said, it wasn't small. I felt Walter slide the hands back up and start working on my shoulders again. "Mulder. Relax. We're not going to do that tonight. We're not going to do anything you don't want to do."

"I trust you." And I did.

"I know. But we don't have what we need and there's a lot of fun to be had yet. Some other time," he promised, and he was nibbling his way down my spine all of a sudden, and then... I screamed. I must have. I can't not have. Believe me, I'd never been rimmed before, and let me tell you, if I had been, I'd have known. Nerve endings I didn't think my body had were showing me just what I'd been missing all this time, and I suddenly realized, really clearly, that there was a reason so many guys wanted to be on the bottom. Because it was fantastic, I couldn't keep still and I'm really surprised I didn't hit Walt by accident again when I think about it, and it... just... wasn't... enough. Not enough to come, even though I was grinding into the sheets like crazy, and too much at the same time - between the rimming and his working over my balls, I was fucking overloading on sensations.

When Walter finally nudged me back around and went down on me... jesus. I'd had blow jobs before. At least I'd thought that's what they were. Getting head from a guy, or at least from Walter, was a totally different thing. Phoebe had certainly never looked at my cock like it was the most incredible thing in the universe, and I'm still amazed she didn't disinfect it first and get up to gargle immediately afterwards. Diana - well, I can lose an erection just thinking about Diana's talents in that department. A few dates here and there had been more enthusiastic than Phoebe, more skilled than Diana... but nothing like this. When I finally went down on him I realized what it was... you know what you like, and you do it to your partner. Women don't know how it feels; they don't automatically know about that ridge underneath, or the spots right in front of and right behind the family jewels, or... well, the good stuff. You have to be on the receiving end to know how it feels. I came, and I came, and I'm still not quite sure I didn't pass out for a second there. And the only thing I could think was, hey, I want to do this to Walter, I want him to feel like I just did.

I won't pretend I was great at what I was doing. But he wasn't stopping me, and he wasn't complaining, so I mustn't have been too godawful... or else he had the patience of a saint, which is entirely possible. But the sounds were encouraging, and the way he kept wriggling and squirming, so I figured I'd keep going. Walter Skinner, the most poker-up-his-ass man I'd ever known at the office, was a fucking wild man in the sack, and I liked it. I was even enjoying the apparent contradiction, sort of like when Clark Kent rips his shirt off.

He tasted amazing, Sharp, sort of citrusy, under a coating of salt from the way he'd been sweating. Then I made it down to his erection. No doubt about it, I definitely liked guys, because right then I'd never seen anything in my life I wanted more than that cock. I didn't even worry about what I was going to do with it when I got my mouth on it; I just figured I'd make it up as I went along, as long as I got hold of it. Musk, and more salt, over satin skin, over steel. Whatever I was doing with my tongue was working, I figured, because Walter was all over the bed. I knew I'd driven him crazy in the past, but he'd never liked my doing it before. Of course, he was usually yelling bloody murder at me those times, not moaning for me to suck him harder.

I wasn't quite ready for it when he came. Not a big deal, I guess, but it startled me. I didn't gag - actually, I missed a fair amount of it, and I got to amuse myself - him, too, I think - licking it off of him. Mildly salty, slightly bitter, warm... I'd tasted my own, off and on; it was definitely more fun going for his. Yeah, I wanted to do this again; I just was really worried that I might have been terrible and he'd never want me to try. I guess I shouldn't have worried. When I crawled back up, he grabbed my face in both of those huge hands and practiced mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on me that suggested that both of our lives depended on it.

He was sprawled across the bed, apparently taking up most of it, even for a king sized one; I was up against him now, with my head on his shoulder, my arm across his chest, really pretty comfortable and just about ready to fall asleep right there. Then I thought better of it. The morning - now, that could give awkward a whole new meaning. I hoped it wouldn't... I could handle this again the next night - if he didn't come down with second thoughts about boffing me. Shit, what if he just wanted a one-nighter... He must have sensed my sudden discomfort.

"Something wrong?"

"I - I was jut wondering. Maybe I should get back to my room?" That sounded a safe way to express my sense of "mess."

He pulled me tighter against him. "Only if you want to disobey a direct order, agent." Good answer. "You. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere. Understood?" He chuckled, a sort of deep, throaty sound that made me want to do him all over again against the knowledge that he'd hardly be ready to go for it again already.

"Yes, sir." I snuggled in like a heat-seeking missile. Not that it wasn't too damn warm around the place already, but no way was I letting go. Not on your life.

"I don't know about you," he told me, talking into my hair, "but I need some sleep. And you and Scully have your hands full tomorrow. Let's crash." Kisses in my hair, another bear hug. Yeah, I could get used to this. More than that, I wanted to.

Horrible, horrible sounds... then Walter picked up the telephone receiver, rolling over me in the process. "Yeah... thanks." He slammed it down, grumbling. "Damn wake-up call." Then he looked at me. "Morning, Mulder. Welcome to the land of the living."

I looked up at him hovering over me in the bed. One thing about being bald - your hair looks just fine in the morning. Walter looked pretty fine all over to me, to tell the truth. "Time to get up?"

"I don't know about you," he grinned, "but I'm already up." Thanks to whatever invented human biology for the morning erection.

By the time we were done waking up properly and showering together, it was clear we were going to be late for breakfast. Scully would be waiting for me, if not for both of us, probably grousing at her cooling coffee. We came down to the coffee shop twenty minutes late, together. Scully looked irked for a moment, then took a good look, and just made this teeny little tight-lipped smirk into her coffee cup. I knew I'd hear about it from her later, because Walter had this shit-eating grin that he apparently didn't realize he had. Scully and I were talking; he seemed fairly distracted. "So...," she interjected, "sleep well, Mulder?"

"Yeah, Scully. You?"

"Apparently not as well as you did. Pass the sugar?"

"You didn't say please, Scully." I handed it over.

She snickered as she took it from me. "So that's what you're into? I never knew." I turned and looked - Walter was still in another galaxy; I hoped the Reticulans didn't find him and take his liver. At least he wasn't listening to us, thank God. He's cute when he's completely distracted. I'd never noticed that before. I was mildly distracted myself, wondering where the nearest drugstore was - I figured I needed to pick up condoms and lube for that evening.

How the hell were we gonna keep this going back in DC? I didn't know, but damn all if I was letting this drop when we got back. Judging from Walter's expression, that made two of us.

 

* * *

 

"Got My Mojo Working"  
By MJ ()  
Part of the "Mexico" series - a sequel to "St. Louis Blues" (companion piece to "Sinner's Prayer")  
MJ's Fiction and Links:  
http://members.aol.com/mjr91/ficintro.html  
Thanks to Kass and JiM for beta, JiM for co-author of the year, bet dina for opinions and eagle eyes.

* * *

"Got My Mojo Working"  
by MJ

So anyway, at least the air conditioning at the Regional Office in Saint Louis worked. That didn't keep the local agents from sweating. I was reviewing their investigation of that blasted possessed ventriloquist's dummy and raking them over the coals with a lot of help from Scully and a little reinforcement from the big guy. He was spending most of his time there raking the upper echelon over the coals as a little kind assistance in their restructuring, so I didn't see much of him that morning, and what little I did see of him involved his baring fangs at lesser mortals. I'd been on the receiving end of those fangs more than once, and I thanked God I wasn't there now. Where I wanted to be instead was back in his bed, going for a repeat performance of the previous night and that morning.

Scully and I were tearing through files on the case and issuing marching orders to the regional boys when Walter suddenly interrupted us. "You've been working hard enough, you two. I'm buying you lunch. Contrary to popular opinion around here, I'm not having skewered ASAC for an appetizer. Let's get out of here and get some Chinese."

We headed around the corner to a really nice Chinese place with no discernable FBI agents other than ourselves in it, and ordered up a storm. Scully and I were explaining the local agents' fuckups on the dummy case when I suddenly realized that there was another leg under the table making really friendly with one of mine, and it belonged to the hunk sitting directly across from me who was asking Scully about any precedent she recalled from her adventure in Maine with the demonic baby doll and who was looking totally innocent. I didn't know about his condition, but I was getting harder than the chair I was sitting on from the contact. Scully looked down momentarily to root through her handbag, and Mr. Totally Innocent Assistant Director suddenly gave me a look that could have melted both of our pairs of glasses. By the time Scully was done bottom fishing in her purse, Walter was calmly detailing the heads rolling on the upper floor of the Regional Office while one of his hands was playing with my knee. He's got a flair, that's all I can say. I was this close to coming in my pants before the pan-fried noodles and shrimp in garlic sauce arrived.

Scully headed for the ladies' room briefly during lunch. He looked over at me, smoldering, again. "I presume you and Scully have dinner plans." Neutral, not upset. He'd done the life on the road with the partner himself; he knew the routine.

"Nothing specific, but it'd look bad if I ditched her and left her to fend for herself. Care to join us?" This time I counted on an acceptance of the invitation.

"If you don't mind, yes. I'd love to." Husky voice that made me think I might come in my pants again. Dark eyes looking me over as if my clothes were a fortune cookie and I was the paper inside. God, I wanted him. I was going to be distracted all afternoon replaying what we'd been doing the night before and imagining doing most of what we hadn't done. "Would you like to go out after dinner?"

I looked back at him hoping I was mustering up a smoldering look of my own rather than my usual goofy stare. "If you mean just us... only if Scully wants to call it an evening early. She's used to hanging with me on the road. But whenever she crashes... I'm all yours."

More smolder from the hunk staring at me. "I wouldn't settle for anything less." Somehow, I thought he just might mean that.

I took a mid-afternoon coffee break to run out to the drugstore for condoms and lube. The more I thought about what we hadn't done the night before, the more I wanted to go there. A lot of guys seemed to like being on bottom; I could only figure that meant it was a lot more fun than visiting the proctologist -as if Walter's rimming me the night before hadn't proven as much. I was having severely distracting fantasies of a hot, naked Walter Skinner ravishing my body completely, imagining feeling him inside me, that huge chest and those incredibly muscular arms of his surrounding me the way they had on the previous night. Scully had been wondering what the problem with me was; I couldn't think of how to tell her that I was having some kind of Harlequin Romance fantasy involving Walter Skinner sweeping me off my feet and riding my ass into euphoric oblivion.

Then I started looking around the store and my fantasy suddenly got a lot more complex. There were way too many choices to make. All I really knew about was Trojans and K-Y. The matter of brands, lubed and nonlubed, spermicidal and nonspermicidal, ribbed and nonribbed, and, oh Lord, sized condoms for guys who thought they were hung like stallions was really too much to contemplate. Top that with the problem of gel or liquid K-Y, Astroglide, the store brand lube, and about a dozen others on the shelves - which didn't include any of the weird flavored ones you see in the porn shops - and the whole subject of sex was becoming monumentally overwhelming. I really wanted to run back to the office and ask Scully for help, but I knew she'd die laughing at me. I took a deep breath, flipped a coin mentally, and went for the Trojans and the Astroglide. There is such a thing in this world as too much freedom of choice.

The three of us went out for ribs and a couple of pitchers of beer for dinner. Scully proposed a cheerful evening of reviewing more files from the case in her room while she and I watched a "Star Trek" marathon on some independent channel. Since I would normally find an offer like that too good to pass up, I couldn't refuse. I pointed out to her that I'd been tired at breakfast, I was a bit wiped out now; would she mind if we only worked together after dinner for an hour and a half or so? I gave Walter a "look, I have to" look, and he nodded back quickly. "If you two are doing that," he mused aloud, "I think I'll catch CNN and check my e-mail this evening. I have a bottle of Scotch with me if you feel like a nightcap before you crash, Mulder." I figured that all sounded innocuous enough for Scully's benefit. What was I going to do -tell her we couldn't do any work that night because I wanted to keep the boss's bed warm?

Scully and I did make some headway on the notes of interviews the local boys had conducted while we snickered our way through "I, Mudd," one of my favorite classic Trek episodes. If I ever have a firstborn son, I might have to name him Harcourt Fenton Mudd Mulder. He can call himself "HFM Mulder" and sound distinguished. Anyway, we wrapped things up, I pleaded exhaustion, and I crawled back to my room. A few minutes later, shopping bag in hand, I was slipping into Walter's bedroom. He was watching CNN, all right, sitting in bed naked and nursing a Scotch on the rocks. I tossed the bag on a corner of the bed and myself on the bed's occupant. Well into a soul-searing kiss, Walter looked up at me and grinned. "I presume you want something, Agent Mulder?"

"Yeah." Wriggling against him, thrusting myself against his hip. "I want you to fuck me until I scream."

Bigger smile, laughing brown eyes. "Oh, I think I can arrange that... " Another kiss from the sexiest hunk in the FBI. "But I think you're a little overdressed, Agent. You're going to have to take all that off."

"Is that an order, sir?"

"Absolutely, Mulder." I wasn't going to wreck a budding relationship through willful disobedience to my immediate supervisor, was I? I pulled myself up and slowly peeled myself out of my clothing, taking my time, knowing he was watching every move I was making. I'd never stripped for anyone before; the idea of doing it, knowing that Walter was scrutinizing every inch of my body, realizing I was arousing him with the act, and feeling just a little bit kinky at playing with following orders, was proving to be a really powerful turn-on. By the time I was sliding out of my shorts, I was sporting an erection about as emphatic as the one he'd teased me into at lunch, and Walter was looking at it with a degree of possessiveness that was nearly enough to send me over the edge just watching the way he was looking at me.

I sat back down on the bed, and reached for the bag, waving it in front of him. He reached over for it, and I pulled it out of the way. "I hope I got the right ones," I teased, moving the bag back into his reach.

He felt inside and pulled out the contents, looked at them, and looked up at me again. "Mmmm... I think they'll be just fine." He looked at the purchases again. "Went for the extra large box, Mulder?"

A three-pack had seemed pointless, and a twelve-pack... well... "Call me an optimist, sir. I figured adequate preparation was a worthwhile investment."

Walter laughed. And laughed. And fucking started chuckling his damned guts out there in the sack. For some reason, that had gone over nearly as well as my brilliantly planned elf routine the prior night. What had I done? "Mulder," he finally gasped when he came up for air, "I always wondered what it was going to take for you to prepare for something for once in your life. If I'd known this was it, I'd have dragged you off five years ago."

I grinned at him cheerfully as I slid into his bed. "Dragged me off, huh? I always wanted a caveman of my very own."

"Don't ask for what you want," he admonished me according to the old proverb. "You might get it." Hell, I'd already gotten it, hadn't I, and its name was Walter Skinner. Everything else, all that we could do with each other, was merely a matter of time if I managed not to fuck things up with this man. I was determined not to fuck up now, even if it meant obeying job orders back at the office when we got home.

"I'll chance it," I offered to him, sliding an arm behind his back and pulling him closer to me - or, really, me closer to him; he's a pretty large dead weight lying down compared to me. He grabbed me and pulled me into a kiss that threatened to cut off the oxygen to my brain long enough to do some serious damage. His tongue was doing some serious damage of its own - it might have looked as if he were only probing my mouth, but I could feel him probing parts of me that you couldn't reach physically, including a few that I hadn't let anyone near since Phoebe fucked me over years before. I wasn't sure I was ready to have him reach some of those places yet. I backed out of the kiss as gently as I could, not wanting him to realize how much he'd just scared me - or I'd scared myself, whichever. I pulled myself up against his chest and started exploring his body the way I had the night before. If I threw myself into the sex, maybe I could keep away from dealing with the parts of me I didn't want touched yet.

Walter, as I'd hoped, figured it was completely stark, raving lust on my part that had my mouth on every part of his body I could reach. I do have to admit, there was a highly significant lust component there anyway - at least, oh, say, ninety per cent by the time I'd reached his nipples, and I'd pretty much forgotten anything else at all by the time I'd found his erection. Walter Skinner is one significantly gorgeous piece of beef in the first place, but I'd never seen anything in my life I'd wanted more than his cock. I've still never seen anything I've wanted more.

He finally reached down, patting my head. "You'd better stop if you don't want me to come like this. I'm an old man, Mulder; I don't guarantee I'm good for a second one tonight, so I don't want to waste it."

I relinquished my prize grudgingly, but with a grin. "So... what's your suggestion instead?" I slid back up along the length of his body, trailing a hand behind to make sure my new toy wasn't going anywhere without me.

"Mmmm... well, you're the one who brought the lube... you feel like you're ready for it?" If he had been any more solicitous, he'd have wound up going back where I didn't want to go. I wasn't ready to feel anything like that, not yet; I just wanted to feel him, preferably deep in me. I looked right into those two Hershey's Kisses he called eyes and nodded. "Mulder... you know... it's going to hurt this time, if you've never done this."

"I know," I told him. It's going to happen sometime, right? So it might as well be now. I trust you; I told you that."

"You're sure." A statement from him, not a question. He believed me, but I think he was afraid I'd wind up being sorry, at least that night. I had no intention of ever being sorry, no matter how much it hurt this time. The obvious fact that guys kept going back for more meant it had to improve, and no matter how much I didn't want to let him any further inside my feelings right now, I wanted to keep this thing between us, whatever it was, going. I counted on having plenty of opportunity to see how much better having Walter fuck the living daylights out of me could get.

"Yeah. I'm sure. I'm all yours, big guy."

"Remember you said that," he growled. God, Walter growling was like - oh, shit, I can't describe it. That growl of his - I could feel it playing with my ears, I could feel it rumbling in my chest, I could feel it going straight to my cock. Then I felt him reaching over to where he'd left the Astroglide, and then, again, cool, slick fingers reaching down, behind, in. It wasn't better than the rimming, just different, hitting different nerves; when that first finger made it inside me, it felt incredibly right being there. Oh yeah, I was all his, no problem. He started working it in me, and I started seeing stars. Seriously. If the doctor did his exam the way Walter was working me, I'd beg to go for physicals anytime. Walter's fingers, my prostate... heaven just might exist, I decided, and Walter was the man in charge of admission.

After an eternity, or maybe thirty seconds, since it all felt alike right then, Walter decided I was far enough out of my body to be ready. He started pulling his fingers out slowly, to the accompaniment of my moaning in hitherto unknown languages. It wasn't fair - he was stopping with those fingers. I barely felt him moving my body, pushing my legs apart. What I was finally aware of was Walter's erection working into me as he thrust slowly, waiting to see if I was handling it. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I nodded. And yeah, it hurt, despite the prepping, but it was okay -actually, it was more than okay. I'd asked him for this, and here it was, me turning into part of him. He'd told me to remember I was all his? Hell, at the moment there wasn't any possible way to forget that. The pain started easing a little, and I must have started breathing again, though I hadn't realized I'd stopped. That seemed to be Walter's signal to start working on serious thrusting.

Finally I really started to relax, and then I could tell that it didn't hurt that badly; in fact, I was starting to work into some kind of rhythm with him, and it was actually feeling not that bad at all; it would probably have felt really good if I hadn't already been hurting. I could see there was some serious potential for getting way into this, and the whole trip of having Walter Skinner literally riding roughshod all over me was feeling pretty incredible all by itself. I moved my hand down and started working on myself, letting go as much as I could into what he was doing with me. I came before he did, splattering over my hand and both of our chests, and I'd never felt anything like it before. I have to have screamed; I know it. I'm surprised I didn't break his eardrums when I think back to it.

Then I made my mistake. Once I sort of came back down, while Walter was still screwing me to pieces for his own benefit, I looked straight up into his face. I'm supposed to be on this huge Quest for the Truth, right? You know, sometimes the truth is something you really don't want to see. Sometimes it's too much to handle. I certainly couldn't handle what I saw in those eyes, not then at any rate. I knew what it looked like, I could tell what it felt like, and it was way, way too close to home for me, especially coming down off of that cloud I'd been on. Even as Walter was growling and coming like the proverbial freight train, I could feel myself starting to cry, which my mind was telling me was a bad thing. It wasn't a loud bawl or anything stupid like that, but it was a lot more than just damp eyes.

Walter was down on me, his weight barely supported by his forearms, as he withdrew from me, and he looked... well, pretty scared, actually. He reached a hand up to my face, strong, gentle fingers wiping tears away from my cheek. "Mulder... are you all right? You should have said something..."

"I'm fine. I'm okay." I looked up at his face again. Incredibly intense concern, and, I was afraid, maybe a lot more than that. Shit. Sex - sex, I could handle. Sex was a great way to get away from problems for me; it had been for years. As long as it didn't come with a cargo hold's worth of baggage. I hoped to hell that the look I was getting wasn't baggage. Phoebe and Diana had left me with more than enough for an eternity. "It was... just... pretty intense, you know?"

He nodded down at me. "Yeah. Yeah, I know." More wiping my face with those fingers, and then a kiss that could have sucked out my guts. Another one of those mind-blowing kisses of his. Shit.

This was all my idea, wasn't it?

I woke up around three in the morning. Walter was sleeping the sleep of the just, so I decided to do what was obviously the best thing. I slid out of bed and headed back to my room to get a few more hours' sleep and maybe sort out what was going on, see if I could get away from the unpleasantness and messiness of feelings.

He knocked on the connecting door around seven, looked in on me. I had just gotten out of the shower. "Mulder... are you okay? I woke up, you weren't there."

I looked over at him as I toweled my hair. "I'm - look, I don't know. You said something about not asking for what I want because I might get it?"

"And?" He stared at me over his glasses rims.

"I don't know. I just don't know. I need some space this morning." I needed a whole lot of space, was what I needed. What I needed was for one of us to get called back to DC this morning so I could get the hell away from him. All I'd wanted was some nice, uncomplicated, hot sex for a few nights during a miserable business trip, and what I'd wound up with instead was a man who was threatening to push every button I had just by being there. Damn it, couldn't he have just wanted a free fuck? But no, I had to go yank his emotional chain. The damn videos were a hell of a lot safer, even if they had gotten boring.

I spent the day up to my neck in the damned heat tracking down witnesses. I shouldn't have had to reinvent the wheel, but I'd gotten so frustrated between the morons from hell investigating the case and my having to avoid Walter Skinner that I needed to get out and do something. Unfortunately, what this did was make the case that much worse. No, I didn't fuck anything up, but the witness from the mall toy store had also been involved in the sighting of a huge furry thing - like a Teletubby, she said - that she connected to a murder in one of the 'burbs. Dummies. Teletubbies. What else was there in this town - marauding Barbies with miniature handguns and knives running loose in a gang? If I ever go back to Saint Louis, it'll be too soon, trust me.

I even missed dinner, which meant I didn't have to deal with Walter or with Scully wondering why I was bummed. I didn't want pressure and I didn't want solicitous. I wanted a cold shower, a cold beer, and a hot beef barbecue sandwich. I managed all three before I crashed early and slept poorly. I told Scully I would be out tracking a lead. I headed instead to a dive that came strongly recommended by one of the saner agents in the Regional Office the day before. It had been a decent enough place, as promised - cold beer, hot food, hotter waitresses, and some fairly colorful local characters that strongly bore watching. One of the local girls - the term "lady" might be more accurate in her case - had been making pretty friendly with me, but I wasn't interested in pay-for-play action. Really, I wasn't interested in action, period. I didn't have that much to drink, either, so I couldn't figure why I slept so badly that night.

Breakfast the next morning was interesting. I met Scully in the coffee shop, ravenously hungry despite having stuffed three barbecue sandwiches, a plate of slaw, and a small pitcher of beer down my face the night before, and ordered a "heart attack special," as Scully termed it. I wish she'd get off me about my eating. My cholesterol's plenty low, always has been. No Skinner. Half an hour later, still no Skinner. Finally, while I was working on coffee, in stumbled our esteemed supervisor, looking vaguely like he'd survived a Reticulan attack. Scully thought he was sick. So did I, at first. Then I realized what had kept me awake. Three a.m. - that was when I'd heard his door slam. He'd been out until three. Then - shit, he'd been out on a bender, hadn't he? Walter Skinner had a hangover? That had to be a first for him in years. The man was just too tightly controlled to do things like that on a work night - or at all, really, I supposed. But hell, we were out of town, and I wasn't the only agent who'd done incredibly stupid things on the road.

I mean... the only other thing I could think of was that he was upset about something. And it couldn't be me - I mean, what had I done? Just because I wanted some breathing room? No, that didn't make too much sense. The Great Stone Face didn't do that kind of thing. Besides, this was the man who'd head locked me twice and had me put in five-point restraints; why the hell would he have gotten smashed just because I didn't want a capital-R Relationship? He should have been happy about that, I figured. So I realized that he'd been on a bored-and-out-of-town bender. Perfectly reasonable.

I spent the rest of the week, what little there was of it, working my ass off and embarrassing the regional boys totally. There was gonna be one hell of a report to the Director about ineptitude if I had any say in the matter - and this time, I did. Skinner was producing a report of his own that basically recommended execution for the agents he wasn't mad at. Scully thought he was coming down a little hard on these guys, but I thought they deserved it. Hell, he was working pretty damn hard too since he'd worn off that hangover. Almost like he had something to prove. I was just glad he wasn't proving it to me.

I sat beside Scully on the flight home on Friday. Skinner was across the aisle from us, beating on his laptop like he was writing the Great American Novel - I figured it was the third draft of "Why I Recommend the Death Penalty for the Regional Office." He'd been fighting off a stew who really had it bad for him - she kept coming around persistently to practically beg him to drink. At one point I thought she was gonna throw herself across the laptop and force a miniature down his throat. It was too damn much to contemplate, so I headed back to the lavatory. Airplane restrooms are a phenomenon unto themselves; about the only thing they're really good for is making sure that making sure that your initiation into the Mile High Club will throw your back out no matter what position you're in. Don't ask me what I know about the Mile High Club. I missed out on enrolling Alex Krycek in it, that's all I'll say.

I got back and saw that Skinner had gone for the booze, finally. I guess the stew had made him an offer he couldn't refuse. I was sort of worried after that hangover he'd acquired the morning before so I took a good look over to make sure he was okay. He looked back over at me. I pulled back pretty much like an ostrich, hoping he hadn't seen me. I didn't want him to get the wrong idea, whatever that was; I wasn't all that sure of what the right idea was myself. I didn't say anything to him; in fact, I don't think I spoke to Scully for most of the flight either. She'd gotten it into her head that something was wrong with me, kept asking if I was okay, if something had been on my mind for the past couple of days. I really didn't want to talk about it - what was I gonna say, I'd been boffing Skinner and I was feeling Way Too Much Pressure from him?

So we landed at what used to be National Airport and will never be Ronald Reagan International Airport to me. On a Friday night. Which is sort of like trying to get across Times Square at rush hour, if you get my drift. The whole fucking universe is there and they all think that your suitcase is theirs. We got through the usual stupid landing and luggage hurdles pretty well - there are certain advantages to a badge, I admit - and then I had to get home. I really didn't want either to fight for or to pay for a cab, but Scully had some kind of lame excuse about her mother. Why she was staring dead on at Skinner when she told me loudly that she had to color her mom's hair in ten minutes beat the hell out of me, but unfortunately he heard her and decided to offer me a ride. I tried to duck out of the offer. It was the last thing I wanted. "Mulder. I said, *I will give you a lift*." Shit.

The last thing I wanted was to be alone in the front seat of Skinner's Buick with Walter Skinner. All right, his Roadmaster was the most comfortable thing on four wheels - hell, it would have made a perfectly good efficiency apartment - but if I had to be in the damn thing alone with Skinner, God only knew what was going to happen. Probably a homicide. Oh, yeah, homicide was coming right up - he'd just passed the exit for my place and was heading towards Arlington. "Uh, sir? That was the turn-off for my place."

"I know." Smug. He knew damn well what he was doing, didn't he? Goddamn bastard.

"Then, what...?"

"You're coming home with me."

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

Skinner just smiled, watching the traffic. One more time - goddamn bastard.

"I thought I'd made it pretty clear that I didn't want this." My teeth were clenched to the point of dealing with a nice case of TMJ. Just like Skinner's lockjaw, it struck me. Fuck.

"You did," Skinner said to me. "I just don't happen to care what you want."

"They have a name for this in the Commonwealth of Virginia, sir. They call it 'kidnapping'."

Skinner pulled his cell-phone out of his trench coat and threw it at me. "You wanna report a crime, Agent Mulder? Go ahead." Shit, he was pushing this one all the way, wasn't he? Wasn't Saint Louis enough, damn it? What the hell else did he want to get from me? I figured I'd pushed my luck with my mouth already; if this was how he reacted to the kidnapping line, I'd better try keeping my mouth shut now. Why the hell did there have to be so much traffic out that night? It must have taken the better part of an hour from the time he threw his phone at me to his pulling in at his condo, and I had to sit there biting my lip the whole time to keep from putting my foot into things even deeper.  
**************************** 

His building. I really must have wanted to see what was playing out here, because I went right along like a sheep. Hell, I was still carrying Skinner's damned cell phone. I'd have started an argument on the elevator, only it was nearly as crowded as the fucking airport.

Skinner opened the door, let me in ahead of him, closed and locked the door. Okay, time to have this shit out, now. "Look you son-of-a-bitch, I don't know what you think you're doing, but..."

Skinner dumped our suitcases beside his coat rack and took off his coat. "Why did you dump me?"

That I hadn't quite expected. Dumped? Oh, hell, I should have known it. I'd been right to get upset at how he'd been looking at me. I should have known, should have thought about this. Now he was projecting, wasn't he? "What the hell are you thinking? It was one night and you're making it a federal case..."

"Two nights," Skinner said. "Was it just some kind of weird impulse gratification for you?" All I could do was shake my head. Of course it hadn't been... but, shit, two nights, what'd he want from me? A fucking proposal? Jesus... Skinner crossed his arms, pinned me down with his patented glare. "I'd really like to know. You go to a hell of a lot of trouble to get me into your bed, make me want...," he stopped, shook his head, then continued. "Then you pull this disappearing act on me."

"I was right there all the time, working the case." Well, I had been, hadn't I? I did my job the whole fucking time I was there... all I'd wanted was some space, some time to myself. Wasn't that fair? What was the problem with that? Just because he'd been leaning on me for... oh, fuck. He hadn't, had he? I'd been so damned busy being scared of how I thought he'd been feeling... because I didn't want to follow where that line of thinking went if I'd picked it up. Yeah, I did know where it'd take me if I thought about it.

"You might has well have been in the Antarctic. I wake up, you're gone. You won't talk to me; Scully gives all your reports. You even changed your damned room...what the hell had I done to make you suddenly treat me like a stalker?"

I couldn't look at Skinner. "It wasn't you." No, it was me. Like I was gonna admit that, though.

"Then what was it, Mulder? Just a one-night stand? Clearing up a little boredom on the road?"

"No."

"Then what? I didn't come after you, Mulder. You made it very plain what you wanted and you got it. Was that what it was all about? You wanted something, you got it, end of story?"

"No, dammit!".

"Then what was it, Mulder? Tell me, because I really need a clue here."

"I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. It wasn't supposed to happen at all, I guess. I'm sorry," I must have been whispering by then. I could barely hear myself. I didn't really want to; I felt pretty much like shit. Which was fair, I suppose. I tried to step around Skinner and get to the door; slinking out with my tail between my legs would have been just about the right effect, I thought.

Shit, I'd really ticked him off. He grabbed me by my jacket and slammed me back against the door. "Oh no. This isn't how it goes, Mulder. You don't screw me, then fuck with my mind and then just go home."

What's that old psych litany - mad, sad, or glad? I was sad for about half a second that he felt hurt, that I'd done it - then I realized that he really had just slammed me into a wall. Mad set right back in. I grabbed Skinner's wrists as hard as I could. "What the hell do you want, Skinner?! An apology? OK. I'm sorry you fucked me. Is that good enough?"

Skinner's hands were shaking; he was still holding on to my suit jacket, but he was nearly pounding my chest. "No. Why did you leave?"

"I don't know! Is that what you want to hear?! I don't fucking know!"

He loosened his grip on me; I let up on his wrists, quit cutting off the circulation to his hands. He was looking at me like he was really worried about something. "You're afraid. Tell me what you're afraid of." I couldn't handle looking at him. It was getting too fucking intense again. And for some obscure reason, something was nagging me into feeling guilty. Hell, maybe I'd been feeling everything I said. That still didn't give me the right to abuse him the way I had been doing. "Tell me."

I couldn't, maybe I was a fucking coward about this. I just couldn't figure out what I was supposed to say. What was I afraid of? At the moment, damn near everything. Of Skinner wanting more than I could give him. Of me needing more than I wanted to have to need from him. Of - shit. "All right then, I'll tell *you*," Skinner whispered to me, shaking his wrists out of what little grip I had left on them. "This," he continued, releasing my lapels and running his hands gently over my shoulders. "You're afraid of this."

"And this...," he continued again, moving up to my face. He had my head anchored to face him, and he was giving me that pinned-in-place stare again. I should have known better than to look; I should have kept my eyes closed, but I didn't. He had me stuck there like a deer in a pair of headlights. I reached up, grabbed his wrists again, but didn't have the strength left to pull him away from my face. Fuck. I could feel all of my energy draining into my feet. I couldn't have moved if the building was on fire. Why the hell did he have to do this to me?

"You're afraid I might do this." He leaned forward and started nibbling at my ear. He'd found out about that a few nights before in bed. Between the actual event right then and my remembering the previous events, I was pretty much on my way to turning into a puddle on the floor. "And that I might say...," Skinner whispered into my neck. I knew what was coming. Oh, fuck, no... anything but having to deal with it... "I love you," right into my mouth, no more than a whisper again, just before he kissed me.

Three words like a knife in my gut. Skinner just didn't get it, did he? They'd taken my sister, my parents had split up, Phoebe had knocked me flat into the ground, Diana had stomped on my bones that were lying there, and Alex, even though I'd never touched him, had managed to drag the remains of my heart off to whatever rathole he was skulking around in now. If you really wanted to hurt me, all you had to do was tell me that. That phrase was the usual announcement that you were going to do that to me. I'd trusted Skinner, I'd wanted him, still did, as badly as anything, but see, I'd known since the other night in bed that he was gonna do this to me if I didn't get away... and I didn't want this from him, of all people. I mean, the others had been bad enough, but fuck it, I lo- -- oh, crap. Oh, Jesus. I had to stop before I actually thought the whole thing out loud to myself.

I must have started to turn to that damn puddle for real; I must have crumpled. With my luck, I probably actually passed out for a second because I don't remember doing it, but I obviously started to collapse, because I suddenly realized that Skinner wasn't holding my face any more; he was holding me up against his chest, rocking me back and forth. I wondered where he had the knife. He could reach my back easily enough.

I finally realized that he was whispering something in my ear, that he had been. "I've got you now, it's OK. It's all gonna be OK. You're mine, I've got you. Shh..." Over and over. I could feel both of his hands. Maybe he didn't have a knife after all? Wouldn't that be a switch.

My head was tucked up against his neck. I kissed it, kissed him for the first time in days. Hell, I'd been crazy enough to let myself get kicked when I knew they were gonna do it to me; at least this time it wasn't clear from the start that that's what was gonna happen. Maybe I was safer this time. "What the hell do we do now?"

I didn't even realize I'd thought that one out loud.

"Now, " Skinner whispered, kissing me on the forehead, "we eat." The bastard let go of me. He actually let go. What the hell did he think he was doing, huh? I'd just put on my "kick me" sign, and the man was willing to pass up taking advantage of me - whether by ravishing me or by wrecking my life - for a meal? He had to be the devil incarnate, that was all I could figure.

"You're hungry?!"

"If you had any sense, you would be, too."

"I thought we'd already established that I don't have any," I told him. I tailed him into the kitchen, where I discovered surprise number two: Walter Skinner could cook, and quite well at that. Lentil soup, which I usually don't like because I suspect it's good for me, but was really delicious in this case - especially after airplane food - and homemade biscuits, made from real ingredients that he actually measured out of a canister. I'd been kidnapped before by less attractive people, and they didn't usually either sweep me off my feet or cook for me. This was a real improvement over the usual line of being made off with. I could deal with this type - oh, yeah, could I ever. I had to ask. "So I shouldn't plan on being kidnapped on a regular basis?"

"No, I don't plan to make a habit of it. I'm no one's Daddy and I won't be a one night stand. I want something more from this."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. That word a while back there had been bad enough. The "L" one. Now here he was throwing the "R" one at me. The one with a bunch of syllables. The one that's even worse because I'd been therewith Phoebe and Diana. If love meant "hurt me," relationship meant "torture me, suck me dry, and throw my carcass to the jackals." Diana had done that quite thoroughly enough for any two lesser mortals. I remembered what Scully had said to me once about panic. When in doubt, remember to keep breathing. Oxygen is good. I took a deep breath, and then a few deliberate breaths. My head cleared slightly. I chanted to myself, "This is not Diana. This is not Diana. This is not Diana," while he just kept on eating and occasionally checking me out of the corner of his eye. No, he certainly wasn't Diana. And, to face facts, I was the one who'd come full tilt after him in the first place. I hadn't started the panicking until I remembered that sometimes it's not all just about sex. And Walter Skinner was, for whatever it was worth, worth a hell of a lot more than a quick fuck. I'd trusted him all that time until I'd panicked, hadn't I? God, I can be stupid sometimes. "So do I."

"Let's go to bed." That from Skinner, and it sounded like a fine idea to me at this stage. So I was surprised as hell when making our way to the bedroom wound up lacking something in the "ripping off each other's clothing and flinging ourselves bodily on each other" department. In fact, it resembled nothing so much as my days at Philips Exeter getting ready for bed with the roommates. Clothes off, hung up so we wouldn't get nailed by the housemasters for messiness, teeth brushed, everything, in fact, but my roomie Steve Winthrop's insistence on mumbling Compline to himself from his Book of Common Prayer before bed. Last I saw Steve, he was graduating from Yale Divinity School. If Skinner had pulled out a prayer book - well, I did have my gun.

Back to the bedroom. King-sized bed again, looking really comfortable, with important things like lots of pillows on it. I was pretty damned tired, but I was still having visions of Skinner picking me up, throwing me on the bed, and having at me. Really pleasant visions, full of seriously hot and heavy potential. When he kissed me and started rubbing my neck, I could feel my switches getting flipped everywhere in my body. That was a lot more than old Stevie ever did for me. So I nearly went back for the gun when I started leaning into him and groaning and he pushed me off of him, even though he was still working on my neck. What the hell was I doing wrong? "What...?"

"Tonight, we just sleep." At least he was smiling. "We need time, Mulder. There'll be time for everything, but let's take it a little slower than we have, OK? Besides, I really do have a headache."

I had to be honest. It had been a hell of a trip, thank God it had ended on a Friday so I could recover, and my sinuses go crazy on airplanes from the cabin pressure and the air circulation. "Me, too." He pulled me over to the bed -one part of my visions realized, anyway - and I slid in beside him, curled up against him, and pulled the sheet up over me to combat the air conditioning. He slid an arm around me and pulled me all the way against him, so I abandoned the pillow idea in favor of settling down where my head quite naturally belonged, right on his shoulder with my face up against his neck. Somewhere along the line I fell asleep - not very far along the line, I imagine. I'd only shared a bed with a snorer two other times - the other two nights I'd been with him -but I was starting to get used to it.

  
Three a.m., and I was awake. No idea why, I just was. At least I hadn't had a nightmare - and I hadn't had one on either of the other nights I'd slept with Walter Skinner, either. Hell, I could read that message when I thought about it. I turned around, watched him sleeping in the dark, one arm still around me, his head turned slightly away from me. Amazing planes on his face, with the light, what there was of it, highlighting features weirdly. I felt... I don't know... pretty much overcome, sort of by everything, I suppose. There was a lot of stuff I didn't know how to say, would still be afraid to tell him even if I did know how say it. I was glad he was still asleep; it was easier to tell him that way. So I reached over, up, started running fingers over those planes, picking out features, learning him by touch. It was just that one little bit too firm, I suppose, because my stroking did wake him up.

"Mulder?"

"Shh. Let me," I told him. He was semi-awake now, and he was accepting what I'd been giving him so far; no reason not to proceed, even if he didn't know quite what it was about. I wasn't quite sure I understood everything about this myself, but I wanted to do it. I knew he'd enjoy it. So I shushed him, kept on stroking, and watched him close his eyes and relax again.

I'd already mapped his face, learned it by touch just now, would know it if I felt it again, anywhere. That was how I wanted to learn the rest of him. I wanted to know as much about his body as I knew about my own, to be able to reach out, touch him, and say, "That's Walter; I'd know him anywhere," even blindfolded and holding my breath. All of him - not just his mouth, not just that gorgeous piece of muscle and erectile tissue he called a cock. His chest, his navel, lots of other interesting places. All over his body. Bodies like his don't come around very often; it would have been a major sin not to make a study of it for future reference. Especially when everyone concerned thought the job was so pleasant.

Down to Skinner's hips, back up his sides, down his arms; there were acres of Walter to explore, sort of like a mountain range. I wondered if I could really learn all of him at one time. Kissed him , then back down, down to his feet. He was getting hard, no surprise, but no need to bother with that quite yet. I wanted to have some more fun playing with my new toys first.

"Mulder...," he was groaning at me. I liked it. I liked it. Any moment now, he'd be getting me and Jesus confused, and that was just fine with me; it meant I was accomplishing this mission. When was I first taught that actions speak louder than words, anyway?

"Shh," Why waste energy talking? I was down between his legs, had to reach up now to take hold of his cock. I must have been doing something right with it; Walter was moaning like there was no tomorrow, and knotting up the sheets in his fists trying to stay anchored. That's always a nice place to be for a while. The next thing to do, while I had him where I wanted him, was to learn to recognize him by taste. There could be an emergency sometime, all the power out, and I'd have to be able to find Walter even if he couldn't yell for help. This could be a very useful identification tool.

I'd only done this once before, really, a few nights before with Walter, but I didn't think I needed a refresher course to figure out what I was doing by the time my mouth made it over to his erection. I'd had blowjobs in my life; I had a good idea of the usual drill. And, as I'd found out the other night, my head seemed to have a weakness for gravitating right towards this spot. Again, I was obviously doing something right. He had his hands in my hair now, groaning under me; thank God he didn't do that thing they do in the movies where the guy grabs your head and jams your mouth further on down him, but I really didn't think he'd be that kind of jerk anyway, now did I? Hell, if I'd thought that, I'd never have put the moves on him in the first place.

I'd figured out this time how to avoid some of the challenges from earlier in the week. I managed not to act like a surprised idiot when he came this time. Oh, I almost forgot - one thing I'd learned from having being blown by Phoebe, besides the "no teeth" rule? Don't spit. Actually, I can't figure out why she or Diana did that. I could live on the stuff.

I slid back up to find the rest of the big hunk I'd been entertaining just then. Pulled myself atop him, and kissed him as hard as I could. Walter was damp with sweat, salty like his come. I could taste both when I kissed his face.

Walter was trying to recover faster than he was ready to, worrying about me. "Give me a minute here, and I'll make you feel just as good as I do now."

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine." No lie. I was.

Walter moved a hand down to take hold of me. Yeah, I was hard, I knew it. But you know, that really wasn't the point here. Enough about me, you know? "Feels like you're better than 'fine'," he told me. He purred it, I swear he purred it.

I had to reach down and disengage him from me. I hated to do it, but it was what, after three in the morning, and I'd accomplished my mission; time to go back to sleep, just like he'd suggested last night. I could figure he'd sleep pretty darn well after that. "This time was just for you. Like you said, we have time." I wriggled back against him, pressed against his hip, curling around him.

Walter squeezed an arm back around me. "I love you, too." I guess he got my message.

 

* * *

 

"Sinner's Prayer" - A Mexico Prequel  
By JiM

Rated: PG  
Archive: X/, slashX, Allslash, anyone else, please ask.  
This is a companion piece to "Got My Mojo Working", by MJ. Sequel to "Plans" and "St Louis Blues", part of the "I Still Have Plans to Go To Mexico" universe. It's all getting rather confusing, really.  
But...the series is now:  
1) "Plans" and "St Louis Blues"  
2) "Mojo" and "Sinner's Prayer  
3) "I Still Have Plans to Go To Mexico"  
4) "Three Men in a Boat" (WIP)

These can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html and http://members.aol.com/MJR91/ficintro.html

Feedback greatly appreciated at:   
Note: The prequels all take their names from various blues tunes -- check this one out on Clapton's "From the Cradle" album - amazing.

* * *

***

"Sinner's Prayer"  
by JiM

Stupid. That's what he was, plain shit stupid. There may be no fool like an old fool, but there is certainly no one more foolish than a middle-aged man who fancies himself in love. Especially a middle-aged bureaucrat in love with a younger man, a subordinate, someone so driven and obsessed that he teetered on the knife-edge of sanity on his *good* days ... hell, Walter, why not just swallow your gun and have done with it?

Such were Walter Skinner's thoughts as he fended off the pretty stewardess' third attempt to save him from the tragedy of flying sober. Getting drunk right now wouldn't solve anything; he knew, he'd already tried it earlier in the week. When he'd realized that Mulder wasn't being skittish, wasn't needing space to sort out his head about their new relationship, wasn't being shy... when he'd finally realized that Mulder simply didn't want to see him outside of working hours and as little as possible within them, that's when he'd drunk himself into a stupor. Wednesday night.

Thursday morning had been hell and he'd welcomed it. Was glumly amused at Mulder's shocked look when he and Scully had met Skinner in the restaurant for breakfast. Walter knew what he looked like; pale, dark-smudged eyes, a greenish cast to his skin that only those who have clocked hours on their knees slumped against cold porcelain can appreciate. There was no conversation at all as he watched them toy with their breakfasts and he drank four cups of black coffee with grim purpose. He had been startled from a reverie by Scully's cool fingers against his forehead.

"Are you sick, sir?"

He shook his head, let her feed him aspirin and didn't look at Mulder. Who didn't say a word to him except as it related to the case for the rest of the day. Just like Tuesday and Wednesday.

Now it was Friday afternoon and they were flying home to D.C. Mulder and Scully sat together across the aisle, talking quietly. Skinner had opened his briefcase as soon as they were airborne and had doggedly begun to work his way through the piles of reports and forms needed to metaphorically crucify the lead agent who'd so mishandled the possessed toy case that had drawn them all to the St. Louis office in the first place.

Skinner figured that she deserved to be at least as miserable as he was. The woman had truly merited summary execution; her refusal to even consider certain types of evidence had led directly to the death of two civilians before they had caught the killers. Skinner didn't actually expect her to believe that a life-sized purple Teletubby was responsible for murdering rent boys in a three block area of the factory district. However, to dismiss the evidence that pointed to the bankrupt toy manufacturer whose factory had been shut down on that stretch was sloppy work, pure and simple. He got a certain vicious pleasure in translating that opinion into suitable bureaucrat -ese in his final report to the Director.

Mulder got up suddenly and strode down the aisle. Walter could feel the muscles in his neck tense with the effort to not turn and crane after him. Shit. He capped his pen and threw it into his briefcase.

"Sir?" Scully's voice was unusually tentative. His stomach clenched. He'd hoped they would all be able to get through this and behave as if nothing had happened. That meant *not* talking about it. He looked up at her with his most quelling stone-face. She blinked once, then visibly gathered her courage and said, "He's just scared, sir."

He took his glasses off and ran his hands over his face, wishing the throbbing behind his eyes would stop. Taking a deep breath, he made his decision. Not looking at her, he asked, "Of what?"

From the corner of his eye, he could see her shrug helplessly.

"Help me out here, Scully. I'm way out of my depth." He looked at her then and was surprised by the gentle sympathy in her eyes.

"He once told me that he 'didn't do love well'," she offered hesitantly.

He snorted. "Show me someone who does." She smiled ruefully back at him and they were silent until Mulder returned, clambering back over Scully to take the window seat again.

The stewardess came back again to ply him with alcohol, and this time he gave in to temptation and ordered coffee and Irish mist. When it arrived, he unscrewed the irritating little bottle and dumped it into the coffee. As he lifted the cup to take his first sip, Mulder leaned forward slightly to look across at him. For a moment, he met Mulder's gaze and was shaken by the wistful concern he saw in them. Then Mulder seemed to close some sort of internal storm windows and he looked away.

Walter Skinner put the cup of coffee down untasted and spent the next two hours thinking very hard. He did what he was best at -situational review, analysis, decision making, and planning. By the time the plane touched down, he was ready to put his plan into action.

  
Arriving at National Airport at 8 pm on a Friday evening is not a wise thing to do. People with sense spend much time and money trying to avoid that very fate. FBI agents are at the mercy of careless and occasionally hostile booking agents and Skinner, Scully, and Mulder were obviously doing penance for some sin. Skinner just sighed and waited for his luggage to make an appearance as the mass of humanity seethed around him and his two silent companions. In fact, it suited his plans very well.

Scully's bag appeared first and she scooped it up with an expression of real relief. Skinner wanted to apologize to her, but there was nothing to say.

"Scully? Can I catch a ride home with you?" The first words Mulder had spoken in three hours.

"Sorry, Mulder, not tonight. I'm supposed to meet my Mom in...half an hour?! I've got to run." She turned and gave Skinner a significant look and he nodded fractionally, suddenly wishing he could grab her head and kiss her the way she had once thanked him. Some day, if this worked out, he just might, he thought, and grinned a little.

"I'll give you a lift, Agent Mulder."

Mulder's face was a study in well-contained panic. "That's not necessary, sir, I'll just get on the Metro..."

"Mulder. I said, *I will give you a lift*." Command voice, as his father had once called it, was a valuable tool. In this situation, it was a gift from God. Mulder nodded sulkily. Scully smiled at him again, said, "See you Monday, Mulder, sir," and vanished into the crowds swirling around them.

Their bags appeared, one after the other, soon after that. Skinner led the way to the parking garage, Mulder striding two paces behind him, trailing his own thundercloud of resentment. Skinner spotted his car and angled toward it, Mulder changing course automatically to follow him. When they reached his car, Skinner opened the trunk and threw both of their suitcases into it, yanking Mulder's off his shoulder without a word.

God, he hated this car. It was sensible, stylish, a conservative blue. Like every other car he'd ever bought, every two years, since his career had begun. For one intense moment, he longed for a beat up pickup truck. Someday, he told himself, and squelched the demon of rebellion that seemed to have been born in him since meeting this man. He slammed the trunk and went around and opened the passenger door, holding it open for Mulder with an expression so neutral that Mulder's protest died on his lips and he got into the car silently.

Mulder remained passive and Skinner stayed silent while they drove out of the garage, merging with the streams of cars, buses, taxis, into one river of red taillights inching along through the evening drizzle. It was only when Skinner drove past the exit for Alexandria that Mulder spoke up.

"Uh, sir? That was the turn-off for my place."

"I know."

"Then, what...?"

"You're coming home with me."

He could almost feel Mulder swelling with righteous indignation. "Who the hell do you think you are?!"

Skinner merely smiled grimly, watching traffic behind them for his opportunity to merge.

"I thought I'd made it pretty clear that I didn't want this," Mulder said from between gritted teeth.

"You did," Skinner said as they slid into a lane on the highway. "I just don't happen to care what you want." Or *think* you want, he added under his breath.

"They have a name for this in the Commonwealth of Virginia, sir. They call it 'kidnapping'."

Skinner pulled out his cell-phone and tossed it into Mulder's lap. "You wanna report a crime, Agent Mulder? Go ahead."

The younger man glared at him, then folded his arms and stared straight ahead. He said nothing for the rest of the journey. Skinner gave him credit for his sulk stamina when the drive home took over an hour and it passed in frosty silence. He hoped he was right about this, because if he weren't, oh, if he weren't... he knew he'd wind up with gunblueing on his lips by morning. Oh Christ, let him be right.

 He could see Mulder thinking about balking when he finally parked the car in the garage under his building. Since he wasn't up to wrestling with Mulder, he merely opened the trunk and took both bags and started for the elevator. On any other occasion, he thought he might have enjoyed the outraged expression on Mulder's face. The ride up in the half-full elevator was stone silent, but Skinner was conscious of a certain building tension, a rising pressure of emotion in the man next to him, and he knew that Mulder was primed to explode the moment they were in private.

Which he did. Skinner opened the door, ushered his thunderous companion in before him, closed and locked the door and then Mulder was in full cry.

"Look you son-of-a-bitch, I don't know what you think you're doing, but..."

Skinner placed the suitcases carefully beside the coat rack and took off his coat.

"Why did you dump me?" he asked quietly.

That checked Mulder's headlong plaint for a moment, before he plunged on. "What the hell are you thinking? It was one night and you're making it a federal case..."

"Two nights."

Once again, Mulder was checked by that calm voice. He blinked in confusion and drew breath to argue again. Skinner said, "Was it just some kind of weird impulse gratification for you?"

Mulder only shook his head, mouth stubbornly closed.

Skinner crossed his arms, fixing him with a glare. "I'd really like to know. You go to a hell of a lot of trouble to get me into your bed, make me want...," he stopped, shook his head a little as if to clear it, then continued. "Then you pull this disappearing act on me."

"I was right there all the time, working the case." A weak protest and Mulder's eyes said that he knew it even as he said it.

"You might has well have been in the Antarctic. I wake up, you're gone. You won't talk to me; Scully gives all your reports. You even changed your damned room...what the hell had I done to make you suddenly treat me like a stalker?" Skinner hated the plaintive note that suddenly crept into his voice.

Mulder ran his hand through his hair and wouldn't look up at Skinner. "It wasn't you," he said finally.

"Then what was it, Mulder? Just a one-night stand? Clearing up a little boredom on the road?"

"No." The voice that answered him was low.

"Then what?" Skinner snapped. "I didn't come after you, Mulder. You made it very plain what you wanted and you got it. Was that what it was all about? You wanted something, you got it, end of story?"

"No, dammit!" Mulder's eyes blazed and his fists were clenched.

"Then what was it, Mulder? Tell me, because I really need a clue here."

"I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. It wasn't supposed to happen at all, I guess." Mulder seemed to visibly deflate somehow, losing his anger in a guilty rush. "I'm sorry," he said again softly, and tried to step around Skinner and get to the door.

Skinner's plan went right out the window in a rush of pure rage. He grabbed Mulder by his jacket lapels and slammed him back against the door. "Oh no," he hissed into the surprised man's face. "This isn't how it goes, Mulder. You don't screw me, then fuck with my mind and then just go home."

Something flickered through Mulder's eyes, too quick to be identified, then the anger was back and his hands locked painfully on Skinner's wrists. "What the hell do you want, Skinner?! An apology? OK. I'm sorry you fucked me. Is that good enough?"

Skinner's hands shook with anger; they nearly trembled against Mulder's chest. But his voice was steady and dangerously low. "No. Why did you leave?"

Hounded, scared and angry, Mulder finally cracked. "I don't know! Is that what you want to hear?! I don't fucking know!"

The words were like a cool breeze against Skinner's flushed face. He had been right; his analysis was right. It was going to work. All he had to do was prove it to Mulder now. All the angry tension began to flow out of him. He knew that Mulder could feel it as the other man's grip on his wrists loosened in confusion.

"You're afraid," Skinner said gently. "Tell me what you're afraid of."

Mulder's glance darted around the room wildly, looking anywhere but at Skinner. He shook his head.

"Tell me."

Mulder couldn't, Skinner could see it in his eyes. He felt a rush of tenderness for him, realizing finally that Mulder wanted this, too. It was if he were no more than a half-tame animal, starving, but unable to take food from someone's hand.

"All right then, I'll tell *you*," Skinner said softly. "This," he released the crushed lapels and stroked his hands lightly over Mulder's shoulders. "You're afraid of this."

Mulder shook his head.

"And this...," Skinner's hands slid up to cup the younger man's face, lightly grazing against the five o'clock shadow. Mulder's head was immobilized, frozen in Skinner's grip. His eyes flicked up to look into Skinner's and were trapped there. In desperation, he grabbed at Skinner's wrists again, but the other man was immovable, implacable, unyielding.

"You're afraid I might do this," Skinner leaned forward and nuzzled at Mulder's ear. He nearly smiled at the gasp that was wrung from Mulder. "And that I might say...," Skinner whispered, lips brushing against Mulder's throat. There was a small, terrified moan from deep in that throat and Skinner wanted to soothe that fear. Soon, he promised Mulder silently, soon.

"I love you," he breathed across Mulder's mouth, just before touching his lips to Mulder's.

Lightly, the touch was no more than the brush of a moth's wing, but Mulder seemed to shatter. He made a strangled sound, the parched shadow of a sob, and tried to fold up in pain and terror but only managed to curl himself into Skinner's embrace. Skinner caught and held him easily, rocking him gently.

Mulder stood and trembled against Skinner for a long time and it seemed that he did not hear what Skinner was murmuring to him, over and over. "I've got you now, it's OK. It's all gonna be OK. You're mine, I've got you. Shh..." He didn't repeat the fatal phrase, but he knew that Mulder could hear it in every word. /I love you/

Stupid, he grinned to himself, shit stupid, that's what you are, Walter Skinner. Mulder shifted slightly in his arms and there was a light touch of lips against his throat. Oh yeah. He liked stupid, stupid he could do.

"What the hell do we do now?" Mulder whispered.

"Now, " Skinner whispered, brushing his lips against Mulder's forehead, "we eat." This time, he did laugh at Mulder's bewildered expression as he regretfully unwrapped himself from around Mulder.

"You're hungry?!"

"Yes," Skinner said firmly. "And if you had any sense, you would be, too."

"I thought we'd already established that I don't have any," Mulder said wryly, following him to the kitchen. "But I'm hungry, too. For some reason, I haven't been eating too well this week."

Mulder set the table while Skinner microwaved something from his freezer which turned out to be homemade lentil soup. Skinner noticed that Mulder kept watching him move around the smallish kitchen with a faintly perplexed look on his face. The look deepened to something akin to bewilderment as they ate in a companionable silence. Skinner made Mulder eat a second bowl by using the simple expedient of filling his soup bowl as soon as it was empty and scowling until Mulder picked up his spoon again with a sigh.

"Are you always going to be this bossy?" Mulder asked with a grin, but there was a deeply searching look in his eyes.

"Nope. Tonight is a special case."

"So I shouldn't plan on being kidnapped on a regular basis?"

Skinner grinned, but he sobered as he answered Mulder's real question very carefully. "No, I don't plan to make a habit of it. I'm no one's Daddy and I won't be a one night stand. I want something more from this."

There was pure terror on Mulder's face for just a minute. "So do I," he said, then looked shocked at the sound of his own voice.

Skinner nodded and they finished eating in silence.

 Dinner over and the dishes rinsed, Mulder looked expectantly at Skinner, who didn't fail him, saying, "Let's go to bed." But the bewildered expression trickled back into his eyes when Skinner led him to the bedroom, then handed him a suit hanger and shoved some of his own clothes out of the way so that Mulder could hang his suit in the closet. As a seduction technique, it obviously lacked something for Mulder. He wasn't visibly impressed by the brushing of teeth, although he seemed to appreciate it when Skinner handed him a fresh toothbrush.

Back in the bedroom, his expression brightened when Skinner took hold of him and kissed him very gently. Mulder's mouth was minty and cool and his hands were warm and strong as they slid up Skinner's arms. It felt so good that Skinner almost didn't want to stop, but he lightly pushed Mulder away, laying his forearms on Mulder's shoulders so that he could lightly massage the back of Mulder's neck. The muscles beneath his hands quivered with weary tension and the hazel eyes were panicky as they met his.

"What...?"

Skinner shook his head, hands still stroking, soothing. "Tonight, we just sleep."

Mulder's head dropped as he looked down in confusion and his forehead was suddenly braced on Skinner's chin. His evening beard rasped against Mulder's skin when he next spoke. "We need time, Mulder. And sleep. There'll be time for everything, but let's take it a little slower than we have, OK? Besides, I really do have a headache." Skinner's grin was rueful when Mulder finally looked up.

"Me, too," he confessed with a small grin of his own.

Skinner tugged on his hand and drew him toward the bed. They both settled down with the groans and sighs of exhausted men. So tired that he was dizzy with it, Skinner felt himself nearly liquid with something so unfamiliar, so unexpected that he hesitated to name it. He turned out the light beside the bed and put out his right hand. With a whisper of cotton, Mulder was sliding into the curve of his arm, settling his head onto Skinner's shoulder. Mulder's scent flowed over him, musky and dark, the scent of a tired man at the end of a long day. God, it was good. Then Mulder threw his arm across Skinner's chest and tucked his feet in between Skinner's.

"This is good," Mulder said softly.

"Yeah, it is." Skinner started stroking his fingers through Mulder's hair. Mulder shifted a little, shrugged the sheet up a little higher over his shoulder, then gave a contented little purring noise. Skinner didn't know when he fell asleep.

 He wasn't certain when he awakened, either. At first, it might almost have been a dream, the light stroking of warm fingers against his face. Two fingers traced his brow line, circled his temple, then slid back across his cheekbone to chart the lines of his nose and mouth. A thumb caressed his lips, the near-tickle causing a long slow shiver to roll through him. He opened his eyes to find Mulder leaning over him, propped on one elbow. There was a muffled 3 a.m. quality to the darkness that seemed to whisper around them.

"Mulder?" The weak moonlight revealed only the suggestion of Mulder's face above him.

"Shh. Let me...," he didn't finish his request, and Skinner didn't care. There was something new in Mulder's voice, not tentative, but tender, like the whisper of newly unfurled leaves. Closing his eyes, Skinner gave himself into Mulder's hands unquestioningly.

There was a shifting as Mulder sat up, then those warm hands began to map his body, starting at the crown of his head and flowing down the sides of his throat. They stopped for a moment at the point where neck became shoulder. Mulder's thumbs rested in the hollow of his throat, stroking softly. Then they dragged down the center of Skinner's chest, drawing warm palms after them. Mulder seemed enamored with the structure of his rib cage, shaping it again and again between his hands. Then his touch lightened and he was barely skimming the hair on Skinner's chest with his palms, as if fascinated by its springy texture.

Those warm hands slid down to Skinner's hips, thankfully still narrower than his shoulders, then ran back up his sides to curve and flow down his arms and hook underneath his triceps, as if testing their solidity. Mulder drew his hands down Skinner's forearms. Skinner flexed his hands up and their fingers meshed. They stayed for a moment, palm to palm, then Mulder took a deep breath and loosened his grip, putting Skinner's hands back on the bed, palms down.

Fingertips trailed back up Skinner's arms, then curved back down his chest, brushed lightly over his nipples and continued down the sides of his body, pushing the sheet before them, onto his thighs. Mulder's hands shaped his thighs in the darkness, circling and spiraling lower, tracing the large muscles as they rippled down to his calves. With a firm touch, Mulder learned the arch of Skinner's foot and cataloged the calloused bottoms then cupped his heels before sliding back up the tendons to his calves, gently pulling his legs apart so that Mulder could kneel between them.

It had been so long since someone had touched him with such gentle attention. The very innocence of Mulder's explorations was seductive. Skinner could hear his own breathing, harsh and hot, the only sound beneath the hum of the air conditioning and the whisper of Mulder moving among the tangled sheets. Only now did he become aware of his own trembling. Only now did he realize that he was hard, aching and trying not to writhe with it.

Those gentle hands slid up the inside of Skinner's thighs until Mulder's thumbs rested just below his balls, where they drew tiny circles on damp skin as Mulder sat back on his heels and looked down at him.

"Mulder...," he pleaded hoarsely.

"Shh," Mulder reassured him, his hands sliding up to grip Skinner's straining erection. He caressed, stroked, rubbed, feathered and kneaded with a single- minded concentration that left the older man moaning, hands tangled in the sheets. And then he settled down between Skinner's thighs with another sleepy purr and began his explorations all over again, this time using his lips and tongue. No teasing, just a slow, steady drive toward the edge.

Oral. The man was decidedly oral, the Bureau shrinks had that right. Mulder might not have had much experience giving head, but he had obviously been paying attention. Skinner managed to bring one hand down to stroke Mulder's head, carding through his hair, trying desperately not to yank on it when the younger man began sucking harder. He came with a soundless roar that seemed to echo in his bones long after he had collapsed limply back onto the bed.

When Mulder moved to slide back up the bed, Skinner shivered at the coolness of the air hitting his overheated skin. Then Mulder was covering him again, kissing him deeply, letting him taste the cinnamon and salt of his own ejaculate mixed with Mulder's own rich flavors. Then Mulder was rolling them over, letting Skinner sprawl across his chest. Lips touched Skinner's sweaty forehead and hands moved lightly across his shoulders and neck. Eventually, he gathered together enough energy to say, "Give me a minute here, and I'll make you feel just as good as I do now."

"Don't worry about it," Mulder whispered. "I'm fine."

Skinner's hand slid down to brush lightly across Mulder's erection. "Feels like you're better than 'fine'," he coaxed. Mulder's hand came down and gently grasped Skinner's wrist and drew his hand back up to rest on Mulder's shoulder.

"This time was just for you. Like you said, we have time."

And Skinner, understanding finally, said softly, "I love you, too."

 

* * *

 

Author: MJ  
Reply to   
Title: Hoochie Coochie Man  
Fandom: XF  
Pairing: M/SK  
Rating: PG-13  
Archive: ArchiveX, Allslash: Yes . Others: Ask; yes if you are already archiving "Mexico"  
Spoilers:"Paper Hearts", "Young at Heart"; "Unusual Suspects" (character mentions) Not a crossover, but a "Homicide: LOTS" guest will appear.  
Summary: Mulder sends Skinner a dubious 302. Prequel to "I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico" by JiM and MJ

* * *

Hoochie Coochie Man  
By MJ

(Sequel to "St. Louis Blues" and "Got My Mojo Working"; prequel to "I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico" by MJ and JiM -- as a "Mexico" prequel, it has the requisite blues title, but there's a different musical theme at work herein. No prize for solving the mystery before Skinner does.)

Walter Skinner rubbed his temples. He ought, he knew, to be concentrating on reports this afternoon. He ought to be thinking about requisitions, paperwork, training schedules, and vacation requests. Instead, he was thinking about Fox Mulder. Or, to be more precise, he was thinking about himself and Fox Mulder. In his apartment. In bed. Doing things that normally were accomplished only in movies the Bureau typically seized from adult book stores as evidence in Justice Department pornography prosecutions. In other words, he was thinking about the prior weekend.

Had they really been sleeping together for two months? He'd opened his Day Runner a few times to look back at the date of the trip to Saint Louis, to convince himself that this had really been going on this long. It was the goddamned stupidest thing he'd ever done, to throw over a career's worth of Bureau regulations in exchange for the pleasures of Fox Mulder's body. In exchange for the private enjoyment of Fox Mulder's bizarre sense of humor. In exchange for piles of sunflower seeds left on almost every horizontal surface of his apartment except the bed. In exchange for the very definite delight of hearing Fox Mulder moaning his name when he came, and for the unfamiliar feeling of butterflies in his stomach at hearing "I love you" whispered in his ear at night from the man whose head was next to his on the pillow. A king-sized bed, two men their size, and they used so little space when sleeping together, as if not touching the other while asleep might prove fatal.

It might be the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but damn, it was worth it. He was a cautious man by nature; he'd weighed the risks, considered the drawbacks, reviewed his options. Breaking off with Mulder had been contemplated for all of half a second; that was not one of those options. Not after the devastation he'd felt in Saint Louis when Mulder had considered backing out of the relationship. Not after hearing Mulder's "I love you" that first time in his apartment. Once, the regulations had protected him from his own feelings towards the younger man. Now... now the regulations served only to frustrate him; surely they'd been intended to protect the Bureau from favoritism and exploitation, what did they have to do with love?

A buzz on the intercom from Kimberly. Agent Scully to see him. He wondered what it could be; she and Mulder usually came in a pair around the office, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Or a tall Boris and a short Natasha, Reggie Purdue had once cracked. He welcomed the interruption. If Scully had a work matter to discuss, it might help him focus. And if she saw his distraction... well, she knew, and she seemed to be all right with it. He wouldn't have to explain anything to her.

It looked like work. She came in with a file folder in her hand, looking vaguely concerned. He motioned her to one of the seats across from his desk. "Yes, Agent Scully?"

"Sir, Agent Mulder sent me a fax this afternoon. He was out on a preliminary investigation, and according to this he's requesting a 302 in order to continue with the investigation. He and I don't see this case the same way, of course, but I do think there's something here worth pursuing." She handed the folder, with several faxed sheets in it, over to Skinner.

"Would you care to brief me?"

"Certainly." She folded her hands in her lap, stared at them. "Agent Mulder received a report of an alleged psychic who has been selling some sort of spurious formulas with claims of miraculous powers. There's a concern that she may be selling drugs illegally, or, from what I see here, there may be knowing misuse of unregulated herbal remedies with toxic effects. There are some possible FDA violations if so... and also violation of federal consumer fraud laws since she's making specific representations as to their effectiveness in causing particular results."

"So what do we have here, Scully? Modern snake-oil salesmen?"

"Possibly, sir. But I'm particularly concerned not about the fraud issue, but the possibility of public harm. Agent Mulder's preliminary investigation report, which you do need to look at, clearly indicates that she's selling something hallucinogenic. If she's not violating the federal narcotics laws, sir, she's knowingly distributing extremely hazardous substances without warning as to the possible effects."

Skinner nodded and opened the folder. Baltimore Police letterhead. Hmm; that was unexpected. He put his wire-rims back on and began reading. Mulder was, as Scully had indicated, requesting authorization to investigate. He'd been given a tipoff about an alleged gypsy fortuneteller operating from a storefront in Baltimore near, from what Skinner could tell, old Memorial Stadium. That was -- what? Thirty-third street, Thirty-fourth? A lot of small businesses there, fairly eclectic.

He looked more closely. "The suspect is operating what appears to be an ordinary fortune teller's establishment offering palm reading, crystal gazing, Tarot reading, and the like from the outside. When I entered, however, it became apparent that there was an additional business being run from the location by the suspect. On the walls were advertisements for 'Mrs. Turner's Botanical Formulas', offering various sizes of different remedies at equally varied prices.

"Suspect does not appear to be a doctor, pharmacist, or registered dietician or nutritionist. However, the 'botanical formulas' also do not appear to be medically necessary, but, rather, of a psychic or 'magical' nature --psychic development, luck, money attracting, aphrodisiac, lottery winning, and the like. Legally, public claims for such formulas should be marked 'spurious' or disclaimers as to efficacy posted." Skinner nodded at the report. That much was no news; he'd done a stint once in his early days on a bust involving six phony psychics and substantial cash fraud. He knew the ropes here.

"In order to avoid attracting attention I decided to claim to be a customer, my plan being to obtain a sample of one of the formulas and submit it to Agent Scully for lab analysis. Therefore when the suspect emerged from the back of the shop I requested purchase of one of several aphrodisiac formulas."

Curse Mulder; he would, wouldn't he? Why couldn't he have decided to investigate the lottery formula, and buy a Powerball chance, or an Irish Sweepstakes ticket to test the claim? If going straight for the phony love spells was supposed to be a hint -- well it had better not be a hint, that was all. Would Mulder try dropping a hint in Skinner's ear that way? It wasn't beneath the man to do that. But -- not satisfied? That was news. If they had a problem in that department, Mulder had damn well better be willing to talk about it. There sure as hell hadn't been a problem last weekend.

"When I inquired about purchasing one of the formulas, she asked if it was for me, so I told her yes. She proceeded to make some kind of liquid formula directly in front of me, although I was unable to ascertain the exact contents as the bottles used were unlabelled. She was also working at a counter and had her back turned to me for part of this proceeding.

"I expected that said mixture would be bottled so that I could take it to Agent Scully for analysis. However, she returned to me with a styrofoam cup containing extremely strong coffee, and proceeded to pour part of the formula into the cup, demanding that I consume it on the spot. I was reluctant to do this, as not only did this coffee appear from its color and consistency to have been sitting for quite some time, but the additional contents had a distinct odor approximating paint thinner."

Paint thinner. The words conjured a smell in Skinner's mind. Then the smell triggered a memory. Of a song. Damn the man... And another memory. Of Fox Mulder, the man who'd first attempted to seduce Skinner over a fake 302 involving "The Shoemaker and the Elves" -- he wouldn't be above writing a fake report on a slow day to amuse his lover, would he? But Scully was apparently determined that there was something happening here. "You're certain about this report, Agent Scully."

"Yes, sir. Quite. I'm rather alarmed about the potential misuse of mugwort. Mulder's encountered it on a couple of cases previously; it's alleged to have occult significance. However, its chemical composition-- "

"Yes, yes, Scully..." Skinner returned to the document, groaning inwardly. He was certain that Mulder was setting him up. Scully had actually read this thing? He had the horrible idea that he knew exactly where this was going, but he didn't want to think about it.

"Agent Scully," Skinner inquired again, looking down, "You have read the contents of this report?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you seriously think I should continue to read this before I deny this request."

"Yes, sir. I've considered the contents, and I would advise you to read it all the way through. I don't know how familiar you are with mugwort, but  
I do think you should look at the last page."

"All right, Agent Scully. If you insist."

He returned to Mulder's creative writing exercise. "... so, again, not wishing to arouse suspicion, I held my breath and downed the contents as quickly as possible.

"Suspicion of hallucinogens of some sort being part of the woman's formulas are undoubtedly accurate, as I rapidly began experiencing severe visual and temporal distortions. Possibly of note to Agent Scully is that there is apparently an effect on the body's internal clock, since I found myself unable to determine exactly what time of day it was, although I had entered the storefront at approximately 10:30 am."

Skinner bit his lip. "All right, Scully, what about this alleged hallucinogenic effect Agent Mulder claims to have experienced? Do you really think this report is serious?"

Scully nodded. "Sir, his statement regarding temporal distortion and interference with circadian rhythms is highly suggestive of ergotism."

"Ergotism, Agent Scully?"

"A naturally occurring fungal hallucinogen which grows on rye crops. It's suspected to have been the source of some of the alleged sightings in the Salem witch trials. Chemically, sir, it's very closely related to LSD."

"So you're telling me that Agent Mulder was under the temporary influence of LSD?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Yet it's -- " Skinner checked his watch. "-- three o' clock. How did he recover quickly enough to fax you this report?"

"It appears to act very rapidly, sir. Please continue."

Skinner rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighed, and returned to the report. "I left the premises and returned to 34th Street, where, unfortunately, I found my car being ticketed. I regret to inform you that despite the suspicion as to contents, the formula appears to be effective as represented. Fortunately, my badge was on me and not in the car, as I am currently at the Baltimore PD main office, originally having been charged with assault on a police officer and attempted sexual assault." Skinner let out an involuntary groan. Only Mulder... shit. No, he reminded himself, this had to be another one of Mulder's jokes... but knowing his lover, it wouldn't be the least bit unexpected if it were true...

"However, I have a prior acquaintance with an Officer Munch of the Homicide unit, which has enabled me to talk my way out of the original charge of assaulting an officer. You may be aware that Officer Munch has had some experience previously with unexpected exposure to hallucinogens on my part. I am currently visiting with Officer Munch, and Munch is allowing me to fax this report to you from his office. Although the hallucinogenic effect of the formula appears to be extremely short-lived, I must inform you that the purpose for which it is being retailed appears to be considerably more long-lasting.

"If you are interested in my continuing the investigation on this portion of the matter... how's seven at your place? You might be interested in a personal demonstration of the effects. PS -- I love you. FM."

Skinner shut the file and laid it down squarely in front of him on the desk. He took off his glasses, folded them, and laid them on top of the file, fairly sure that he must be blushing -- he could feel the heat spreading over his face. If Scully, as she'd said, really had read this, then she knew Mulder had set him up to ask him out. He opened his eyes slowly -- yeah, there was the Scully smirk, all right...

Oh, well, why shouldn't she smirk? She was the one who'd sat with him on the flight back from Saint Louis, translating Mulder's behavior to him in terms of Mulder's absolute terror at the time at having realized that he was in love with Skinner. He'd never been able to feel very close to her before that, but the walls between them had started coming down when his own emotions had been exposed to her nakedly on that flight. And she undoubtedly knew about Mulder's original 302 request in Saint Louis... the one that had started this whole thing.

God help him, he really was in love with that damned idiot, wasn't he?

Finally, he folded his hands and laid them on the desk in front of the file. Scully looked as if she might be ready to beak into a sweat, despite the air conditioning. Skinner took a deep breath and a shot in the dark. "Agent Scully, exactly where is Agent Mulder at this moment?"

"Um... in the office, sir." She squirmed under Skinner's gaze.

"Not in Baltimore?" He began to smile, just at the corners of his lips. Agents feared that look, and he knew it. Lesser agents than Scully and Mulder had succumbed to it. Agent Fernandez had passed out once when he'd given it to her over a misstated fact in a report she'd submitted, he recalled.

"No." Oh, Scully was definitely nervous, and it felt good. A little revenge for this 302 was definitely deserved.

"Agent Scully, has Agent Mulder in fact been to Baltimore today?" The smile was turning feral. He could practically imagine that he felt his eyeteeth descending as fangs. They'd better not, though -- he really didn't want Mulder investigating him as an X-File. Investigating him in bed was more than sufficient. As he'd no doubt remind himself again tonight.

"Well, sir, since you ask me that, I would have to say that Agent Mulder has been out of the office today, but if you were to ask me where he was when this was faxed, I could not answer that question specifically, no, sir. Although I believe that he did in fact meet with Officer Munch."

He'd heard that type of line from Scully before. He knew damn well what she meant, every time she'd ever obfuscated with them. She was a pro at delivering Mulder coverups by now. Mulder's buddy from Baltimore must have slipped him the stationery -- there had been a meeting this morning with the Baltimore police over some kind of serial killings near the docks; the racketeering guys and the VCU were helping out on that. "I didn't think so, Agent Scully."

Skinner looked over the contents of his desktop for one moment, then found and uncapped his pen. "Please inform Agent Mulder that although this is one of the worst-written requests he has yet submitted... I *am* authorizing it." He scrawled a signature on one of the sheets, and passed the file back to Scully.

Scully accepted the file and grinned. "Yes, sir. I'll tell him. Any other message?"

Skinner thought for a moment; no, it wasn't appropriate. Not now. "No, no message. I'll tell him when I see him."

"Yes, sir. Would 'love you, too' be the exact wording I should deliver?" Completely expressionless, both voice and face -- damn, she was good.

"Yes, Agent Scully. Thank you."

 

* * *

 

Title: "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues"  
Author: MJ  
Email:   
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Rating: PG-13  
Archive: Basement, CKoS (Allslash), all others please ask.  
Spoilers: huh?  
Summary: Another cheerful "Mexico" prequel. Follows "Hoochie Coochie Man." Rampant silliness possibly ahead. Something to read while JiM and I edit (interminably...) the full-length sequel to "I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico."

* * *

"I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues"  
A "Mexico" prequel by MJ

"To: Assistant Director Walter Skinner  
From: Special Agent Fox Mulder, Division Head, X-Files Unit  
Re: Permission to Investigate

"AD Skinner, sir:

"Although I recognize that this memorandum which I am e-mailing as an attachment is not, strictly speaking, of course, the appropriate form for a 302, I am hoping that you will consider my request to investigate an unusual phenomenon whose occurrence has just been made known to me."

Walter Skinner merely shook his head. The thought of Fox Mulder driving into a small town in the middle of nowhere and discovering an unusual phenomenon was, to put it mildly, a routine occurrence. Mulder could find an unusual phenomenon in the middle of the park on a sunny June Sunday. As, indeed, his lover had proven two months before, when they'd been walking through Rock Creek Park minding their own business.

"When I arrived at Clarksville, a small town about three-quarters of the way to my conference destination yesterday morning, I pulled in at a local convenience store to fill up my rental car and to get a cup of coffee. Upon entering the building, however, I had the chance to hear the locals engaged in a conversation about apparent events of the previous night. These events included the sighting of strange lights in the sky, unidentified aircraft, and the possible ejection from the craft and parachuting down of some unidentified person or being who was not found in the most likely landing area after due searching.

"Recognizing, naturally, the signs of a possible UFO sighting" -- oh, naturally, Skinner reminded himself, "and assuring myself through a quick check of my speed dial numbers that there was no immediately available MUFON representative to call in to investigate the matter under MUFON's strict investigation standards, I realized that I would have to conduct the investigation myself." Skinner put the faxed memorandum down on his desk. For one brief moment, he considered crying.

"I called the conference organizers and apologized for my having to miss the meeting due to an investigation, and then presented myself to the local constabulary, here consisting of one Sheriff Albert Pike and his assistant, Deputy Leo Taxil.

"I was informed that there had been a series of sightings over the past week, primarily near the fields of a local farmer, one Jonathan Yarker. Most had followed roughly the same pattern as the one about which I had heard at the convenience store. Therefore, I determined that the best procedure was to obtain necessary supplies and prepare to investigate the matter myself through a stakeout in Mr. Yarker's back 40.

"After catching a nap in my car for a couple of hours and making a reservation at the local motel for an overnight stay if necessary (the Stellar Motel, Room 8, has lousy water pressure, and I know because I wound up showering there afterwards -- the hot water isn't all that hot, either), I proceeded to Mr. Yarker's rear acreage with my telescope, binoculars, video camera, Polaroid, and other necessities available at the local Wal-Mart. The charge slips are attached for reimbursement."

Skinner flipped to the back of the document, looking at the faxed receipt slips which Kimberly had stapled to the memorandum. There they were. Power telescope. Top-of-the-line video camera -- nothing less, obviously, would be able to capture the appearance of the Mother Ship of All Mother Ships. At least Mulder hadn't purchased another cellular telephone while he was at it. The man killed cellular telephones the way a barn cat killed field mice. Now, there was what Skinner called an unexplained phenomenon.

"According to the local paper, The Plantation and Gazette, sundown was at 8:53 p.m., which accords with my own observations give or take a minute (my Omega watch isn't what it used to be since it underwent some sort of temporal distortion on one airline flight, you understand). For the next two hours or so, I observed nothing unusual, although I did discover that the range on the telescope I had procured was more than adequate to check on the Yarker household, and it's true what they say about farmers' daughters. However, several locals began to arrive in said field in order to look for the unexplained event, causing me to have to stop doing a full sighting adjustment to the scope while targeting the daughter's window. I observe that her window is, however, a popular spot for focusing long-range viewing equipment for many men in the area. 

"About forty-five minutes later, after midnight, both I and the locals observed some form of flying craft becoming visible in the night sky. In my astonishment, I failed to obtain a photographic record of the event, but you will find a description and sketch attached to this memorandum for reference." No. Skinner bit his lip, restraining himself. He was not going to look. He did not want to know. He could never be that curious in his whole life, no matter how badly his lover tried to bait him. He simply was not going to look, he was not going to look, he was...

He loosened his tie, opened a desk drawer, and shook out two aspirin. He was going to find a map, find Clarksville, and go rescue Mulder himself. If Fox Mulder thought he'd sighted an honest-to-God UFO for himself, nothing in heaven or earth was going to make him leave that spot without intervention.

Where had he read that married men lived longer than single men? He presumed that being in any kind of relationship counted for that study. No one had asked him what living with Fox Mulder did to your life expectancy. If he'd had hair left when they'd begun their relationship, he'd be completely gray now; he was sure of it. One Fox Mulder adventure probably took a year and a half off of his life, no doubt about it. And Mulder had only two kinds of adventures: exhilarating or exasperating. Weekends and vacations tended to fall in the first category. But work-related, or allegedly work-related, Fox Mulder wild goose chases were decidedly in the latter.

Oh, God, there was still more memorandum to this memorandum. Faxed in off of the laptop, no doubt, it as usual failed to conform to anything even vaguely resembling a 302. How an Oxford graduate could fail at something as simple as filling out a standard 302... Skinner tried imagining his lover's elementary school report cards. "Works and plays well with invisible others. Insists that visible others are alien hybrids." "Marches to the beat of a different drum. We use a snare for marching play, he insists on Caribbean voodoo." "Runs with scissors. Drops scissors." "Eats paste. Feeds it to others." "Attacks smokers." "Fox shows great imagination. Usually when asked to account for his behavior."

"Apparently, the craft was flying low enough for it to be exited safely by its occupants because, whether through an ejection mechanism or other means, one occupant departed the craft heading at a trajectory which meant that it would reach Earth somewhere in the vicinity of Mr. Yarker's field. Although I was not able, as noted, to obtain photographs of said being, I can attest that it was in form decidedly non-human. As it fell through the atmosphere, I observed that it was somewhat unicorn-like in that its head was surmounted by a horn of some sort which was fairly straight, perhaps a meter in length, and not shaped like a rhinoceros horn which has some degree of curvature as I recall. Also, it was Cyclopean - I think that's the term Scully would use, having as it did only one large eye centered somewhat below the horn and above the nasal (?) region of the face."

Skinner hit the reply button on his mail.

"To: Special Agent Fox Mulder  
From: AD Walter Skinner  
Re: Re: Permission to Investigate

"You insufferable idiot, I haven't even read all the way through that infernal e-mail of yours. As far as I've gotten, you saw a thing coming out of the sky. It had one long horn and one big eye. Was it also purple and with a desperate yen to play sax with the Dave Clark Five?"

He clicked on "send" with an air of general relief.

Ten minutes later, his incoming mail sound went off. Praying that it was a message from Kersh, Cassidy, Alex Krycek, or even his ex -mother-in-law, Skinner opened his inbox.

"To: AD Walter Skinner  
From: Special Agent Fox Mulder  
Re: Re: Re: Permission to Investigate

"Damn, busted. I guess I can't ask you to take the last train to Clarksville? I'll meet you at the station..."

No, he could not. Skinner gritted his teeth and prayed for strength.

"To: Fox Mulder  
From: Walter Skinner  
Re: Impending doom (yours)

"You wasted the travel for the conference on this? Death isn't good enough. I haven't decided what I'm doing, but I'm doing it. Are we clear on this?" He hit "send" and scrounged his memory for another prayer to get him through the rest of the day.

The incoming mail chime rang promptly. He had no illusion that it was anything other than a response from his criminally insane lover.

"To: Walter Skinner  
From: Who else  
Re: Impending doom (mine)

"Spank me? Pretty please? <g>"

Hair. Walter Skinner prayed for hair. He had nothing to rip from his head otherwise. He'd been right before - death simply wasn't good enough. Spanking was way too good - hell, Mulder would enjoy that. Maybe that was it; maybe Mulder was deliberately trying to provoke him into a scene by having gone gallivanting off and driving him crazy. Mulder had obviously concluded that running off from the conference and staging a fake alien sighting would push him over the edge, would drive him into throwing Mulder down on the bed, ripping off Mulder's expensively tailored wool serge trousers, and flagellating those two gorgeous globes of swimmer's ass into submission with his belt... no, come to think of it, Skinner decided, the problem wasn't that Mulder would enjoy that too much, it was that he'd enjoy it too much himself. He steadied his palms against the edge of his desk, willing down the erection that had accompanied the thought.

Blessedly, the intercom beeped. "Yes, Kim?" Thank God, he could focus on business for a minute.

"Assistant Director Levinson calling for you from Richmond, sir."

Richmond. The conference. Oh, no, this wasn't about Mulder's not being there, was it? The slight remaining hardness inside his trousers wilted instantly. At the rate things were going, it might never return. He picked up the receiver and groaned. "Yeah, Fred?"

"Things are going great down here, Walt. Your boy Mulder's the hit of this damn thing. With that rep he'd gotten from the UFO's and that suspension and shit, a couple of our organizers were a little doubtful, you gotta understand, but let me tell you, you put that guy behind a podium with a set of slides and he's got the room eating out of his hand. We had to schedule a second session on profiles of child murderers; we couldn't get everyone into the room the first time. And his session on interrogation techniques really went over big. Dawes wants to know if he can do a training workshop in Seattle next month."

Mulder was there? Mulder was where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to do? What the -- ? Skinner took a deep breath. "That's great, Fred. I'm glad to hear it. I'll call Allen when the conference is over and see what we can work out."

He hung up the receiver slowly. After all that bullshit, Mulder was doing his work all along? How many years had Mulder knocked off of Skinner's life this morning? 

So Mulder wanted to get spanked, huh?

Oh, was Fox Mulder gonna get spanked.

And Walter Skinner was going to enjoy every second of it. 

 

* * *

 

"I Still Have Plans to Go to Mexico"  
by MJ and JiM  
(with apologies to John Berryman and tips of jaunty little hats to Torch and Kass, whose fault this is).

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

The battered Dodge pulled in on the gravel paving outside the Rusty Bucket. A few yards further down the road, by the traffic light, was the turn for heading up into Schoharie County. If you bear slightly to the left, across the narrow bridge, county route 324 leads you into Potter Hollow. The Rusty Bucket is the last watering hole between East Durham and Potter Hollow. Everything else is trees, deer, and rundown wood-shake houses interspersed with farmland, more trees, rusty Ford pickup trucks, and long-anchored mobile homes on concrete slabs with propane tanks outside. It is not an area for night driving. Especially not in the autumn, when the leaves on the road are like a sheet of ice under your tires. And especially not when your friends from East Durham are right behind you, hoping to escort you out of town if not out of existence.

The driver of the Dodge pulled as far over to the side of the parking area as he could. A fading sign read "Home of the Fun Seekers." 'Fun' was clearly a negotiable term up here at the base of the Catskill Mountains. Damn if you didn't expect to stumble over Rip Van Winkle up here every time your foot met a branch, a log, or a tree root. He made his way in through a side door of the old wooden structure - did they have fire codes up here? - and squeezed his way through a gathering of fun seekers to find a seat at the bar. His leather jacket was still zipped; the gun jammed into the waistband of his jeans didn't show that way.

A bartender who appeared to have quit seeking fun several decades previously worked his way toward Alex Krycek's barstool. His plaid flannel shirt had been washed to the point of wearing through at the stress points on the fabric; at his weight, every part of his chest appeared to create a stress point. If he spit tobacco juice on the floor, Krycek thought, it would be no surprise. "Get you something to drink?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Krycek looked around. Mostly bottles of beer there, some drafts, some men with shot glasses. Few if any mixed drinks; those seemed to be the province of the few females present. "I'll take a boilermaker."

"Jim Beam? Jack?"

"Beam is fine," Krycek sighed. He was exhausted after the collapse of his business meeting; the finale had been ...bruising. Pounding down several boilermakers and getting shitfaced sounded like a plan. Someone here had to be from over towards Cairo; maybe he could get a lift in someone else's car to a motel on the other side of East Durham.

He surveyed the crowd as he downed his shot. He recognized no one from the meeting. One guy in the corner looked vaguely familiar, a blond in a flannel shirt over a Rensselaer Polytech T-shirt. They weren't that far from Rensselaer; that was right. The guy must be some kind of overaged student computer science geek who commuted. At least he wasn't one of the damned Mick terrorist wannabes he'd just severed relations with.

East Durham has the distinction of being the "Irish Catskills". An Irish-American Museum lies down the road from the Shrine of Our Lady of Knock and in front of the Irish Sports Grounds, where sheepdog trials are held. If you have ever wanted to swim in a shamrock-shaped swimming pool, the resorts of East Durham can oblige. Pubs lie down the road from other pubs, each trying to outbid the others in their offering of Irish bands playing folk or contemporary Irish music. In the midst of this 365-day-a-year Saint Patrick's Festival lies a more solemn note. Shops and restaurants which elsewhere would hang posters about the firemen's carnival or the Knights of Columbus spaghetti dinner here advertise the latest Irish Republican Army fund raiser. 'Help our boys in Belfast and Ulster'. 'Free the prisoners'. 'Wear the Green Proudly'. Underneath the innocuous words of support, the real message lies: give money for guns.

Krycek signaled the bartender to set up another. Who the hell had gotten him into this mess? Good old cousin Vladimir, that's who. The IRA sympathizers had checkbooks. They wanted rifles, grenades, ammo. An easy deal, right? Some former Eastern Bloc contacts with weapons to spare now that democracy had invaded. A few acquaintances with private aircraft. He had called a few markers in, and had gotten promises that everyone would come. Then Vladimir had to stand them up, promising to deliver only half of the Soviet rifles agreed upon, at twice the price offered only two weeks before. The IRA boys were not happy. Not one bit.

Krycek could hardly blame them. The only problem was the couple of younger hotheads who were blaming him for Vladimir's shafting them. He'd ducked the Consortium. He'd ducked the FBI, the CIA, the KGB - he had ducked the alphabet soup of several countries and was happily alive. Well, alive, anyway. The IRA boys, however, didn't play by the same rules - if they had any at all. And now he had their three letters to throw in the soup kettle of people who wanted a piece of his hide.

The IRA, unlike the other acronymic groups he was ducking, was not part of a government. The government of Northern Ireland and the government of England, rather, wanted the IRA. These boys didn't want to arrest him and have a real or imagined trial. The bastards he had ticked off earlier today, like the Consortium back in the good old days, just wanted him dead. And he was getting too old for the "Wanted: Dead or Alive" deal. Being down an arm was an additional drawback with these types of assholes. If he got out of this in one piece, it might just be time to think about getting out of the game.

Deep in his thoughts and his beer, Krycek never noticed the blond man's trip to the rest room, cellular phone in hand.

* * * * *

"I found him... Yes, I'm sure it's him... He's at a bar called the Rusty Bucket. He sidestepped the boys on his tail, but they'll come around again soon enough... This place only looks like it's off the beaten path. Oh - he's drinking... Like a fish, man. You're coming in? Okay, I-84 to the Throughway. Exit 21 - Catskill. Are you writing this down?"

By the time Krycek decided to relieve himself in the decidedly unspacious and unsanitary facilities of the Rusty Bucket's men's room, the blond was off the phone and heading back out to a bowl of pretzels and a pitcher of cola. A fun seeker indeed.

* * * * *

Krycek walked relatively steadily back to the bar after his second trip to the men's room and ordered another boilermaker and a ham sandwich from the kitchen for ballast. The blond's cellular phone rang. Krycek heard it, but couldn't tell who had the phone; he returned to the chips he was munching. The blond stepped outside.

"Yeah... shit... look, I called, but we're talking Massachusetts, not next door... you're sure? Positive? No... not more of them... anything we can do? I don't think so, just monitor... damn, they'll be here any time ... look, thanks... hey, Frohike, think I ought to tell him?"

A ham sandwich with more chips and a large pickle wedge was being slid under Krycek's nose as the blond wormed his way up to the bar. "Uh... Krycek? Alex Krycek?"

Krycek nearly jumped out of his skin. He slid his hand into his coat before turning to answer. "Who wants to know?"

"Look, Krycek, my name's Langly, Ringo Langly, and I'm a friend of Mulder's."

Mulder? Oh shit. A name hadn't let himself think of in more than a year. What the hell was going on here? "Yeah?"

"Uh, look, I just got a call from another buddy of mine. That IRA jerk who was looking for you is heading back this way, and it sounds like he's checking every place open."

"What do you know about all of this, Langly?"

"Never mind what I know, I'm trying to save your neck. Give me your car keys; I'm stashing your car in a barn down the road. At least they won't see your car. I went Rensselaer undergrad; I know my way around up here. Look, take my car keys - it's a blue Chevy with a rental sticker around back. Don't leave if you don't have to, Krycek - if you have to split, here's a spare phone and my number. Call as soon as you get someplace and we'll get you."

"What the hell is this?" Krycek asked, astonished.

"It's a rescue operation. Let's just say word got out that your deal was going South. You're messing around with some goons that you don't want to tick off, and the feds want them nearly as badly as the UK does. I'll be back in about forty minutes. Hang on tight."

Langly ducked out the side door as Krycek looked on in amazement. It was definitely time for another boilermaker.

* * * * *

Five men filtered into the Home of the Fun Seekers. The bartender headed to their table and took their order. Odd; the East Durham Irish crew usually ignored the Bucket. He went back to the bar and began pulling a pitcher of beer. "Blasted Irish tourists," he grumbled.

"Huh?" Krycek grimaced, coming alert.

"Sometimes these Irish guys heading to or from East Durham pull in here thinking this is part of the tourist trade. Then they make trouble when they find out they were wrong. Some nasty fights from some of the soccer fans, especially."

Wonderful. Just goddamn fucking wonderful. If it isn't the IRA, it's the soccer fanatics trying to kill you, Krycek thought. Leaving sounded like an excellent idea, even though Langly was now back and had been for a while. How long had he been in this dive, anyway? It seemed as if it had been hours; it was definitely at least two hours by now. He decided to check in with Langly about the new bar patrons. Rising from his stool, he turned and headed towards Langly's corner.

A hand reached out to grab his jacket. "Not so fast, Krycek." It was the anxious Billy. "I don't believe you're going anywhere unless you go there with us."

"Really?" Krycek blasted. "Care to join me in the men's room, then?"

"Aaah, who are you calling a bloody fruit, arsehole?"

Krycek had never been above resisting obvious bait. "If the shoe fits, O'Keefe..."

That did it. A backhand from Billy O'Keefe straight into Alex Krycek's jaw. The only possible response was a heave of Krycek's left shoulder, as his solid prosthetic arm caught Billy squarely in the gut. The idea of checking in with Langly or of ducking out to the rental car was forgotten; Alex Krycek had himself a barroom brawl. What more could he want out of an evening? Billy's beer mug went flying as Krycek sidestepped, only to have to slam Billy's originally more rational buddy with the prosthetic as well. Who was tugging at his jacket? Well, kick backwards at them, then swing. A few more mugs whizzed past the table; since Billy's first pitch had landed at a table of local rowdies, it was interpreted as a sign for them to join in. Krycek considered going for his gun as he ducked a local redneck's swing; no, not worth it. No point shooting any of the non-Irish, and in these quarters that only left trying to pistol-whip his way through the crowd. Might as well leave it in place, like it or not.

Langly watched Krycek slugging and ducking his way through the donnybrook, then ducked outside for another call. "Byers, are there any cops around here?"

"Just the State Police," Byers replied on the other end. "Why?"

"Because those goons are here and Krycek's cutting loose with them already. Krycek's armed and I can't imagine that they're not."

"All the Staties that aren't doing Throughway patrol are over at a hazmat accident."

"Shit. The road down here isn't blocked, is it?"

"No, fortunately. Stay calm and for God's sake stay out of the way."

Glass flew out into the parking lot; beer mugs were meeting windowpanes. "Jesus, Langly, it sounds like the Rodney King riots."

"And me without my video camera." A few rednecks who had been fighting inside were now out the door and intro the parking lot swinging at each other. "When the hell is the pickup?"

"Soon. Should be anytime. Does the phrase 'bat out of hell' mean anything to you?"

"Yeah - it's how fast I want to be out of here."

"Just keep your eye on the package, Langly."

Langly ran back to the side entrance and forced his way back into the bar. The IRA boys were doing their best to wrestle with a crew of anti-Irish locals who had found them, as Krycek wriggled out of the melee. Langly flagged him, and they met at the bar.

"Some fun seeking, huh?" Krycek asked as he wiped a trickle of blood from his temple. Langly winced as he viewed the temple, apparently hit by a mug, and what looked all too much like a split lower lip. Krycek wasn't well equipped to defend against head injuries while fighting with only one arm.

"You're drunk," Langly accused.

"Not as drunk as I will be. I'll take another boilermaker," he called to the barkeep, waving a twenty to encourage the man. "By the time I get this in me, O'Keefe will have gotten loose, and I want the painkiller in me first."

The prediction wasn't far off. The better part of the tussle moved towards the bar as one of Billy's mates called out a hearty "There he is!" Krycek chugged the beer and lobbed the nearly empty can towards one of the Irishmen. Billy O'Keefe broke free of the crowd and lunged back at Krycek. Kneeing Krycek as hard and as quickly as he could, O'Keefe hooked his leg around a barstool and brought it down on Krycek's ribs with a jerk of his foot.

Langly ducked back towards the men's room as Krycek worked his way off of the floor and the crowd started pressing around the bar. A chair flew across the back of the room. Krycek collared one of Billy's companions only to find Billy and one of the others grabbing his shoulders from behind. As he concentrated on kicking hard and on feeling no pain in his rib cage, he suddenly realized that Billy had crumpled back to the floor. Apparently someone else had figured out how to fight effectively, or had at least sobered up sufficiently to pack a punch. "Thanks, man," Krycek gasped.

"No thanks needed," came the response as Krycek felt a cuff snap onto his right wrist.

"Mulder? What the hell?"

"Langly told me you were down here, Krycek." Mulder elbowed several drunks out of his way as he made his way to the door, Krycek cuffed to his left wrist. "I broke the landspeed record on I-84 hauling ass to get you out of here. Of all the idiots to get yourself mixed up with, you had to find O'Keefe."

Mulder and Krycek kicked a few more drunks and one of Billy's friends out of their path as Mulder pulled Krycek along to his car. He quickly uncuffed Krycek and shoved him in the passenger seat, then climbed in himself. "And behave, Krycek, or I'll cuff you to the door."

"What is this, Mulder, a nostalgia trip?" Krycek snarled and lunged for the handle of the passenger door, only to stop short moaning and holding his head. Mulder hit the power locks and said,

"It's more in the nature of a rescue, Krycek. If you throw up on my upholstery, you're cleaning it." He spun the big Wagoneer in a tight circle, then peeled out of the parking lot as several of Alex's disappointed Irish playmates came spilling out of the 'Rusty Bucket'. Sliding back onto Rt 324, Mulder ignored Krycek's wretched groan and hit a speed dial on his cell-phone. Krycek only dimly registered Mulder's conversation with the Lone Gunmen.

"No one following, Byers? Are you sure? Yeah, yeah, I trust you. Yes, I blacked out the plate. OK, we're heading back to I-84. I'll call you from home. Thanks again, guys. Great job. I really appreciate it." He signed off and looked over at his passenger.

Then he reached over, snapped on the map light and took a closer look. "Well, you look like hell, Krycek. What the hell happened to you?"

The solid blows he'd taken to his ribs and head and the kick to his groin had left him feeling weak and nauseated. Krycek slumped against the window with his eyes closed, desperately trying to hang on to whatever was still left in his stomach. He just turned and pressed his battered temple against the cool glass, then said,

"My arms deal just went to hell, I was double-crossed by my own cousin, I'm broke, I've had the shit kicked out of me TWICE tonight, I'm drunk and you've kidnapped me. And that scenario worked out so well for me last time."

Mulder snapped off the light and said nothing, just kept driving. Tact or guilt, Krycek wondered and shifted so that his split lip was now against the cold glass. The darkness was thick and unyielding, almost a solid thing clawing and grasping at the car as it raced by. Krycek sank into a bruised doze filled with the jagged edges of memory and distant voices.

* * * * *

He was awakened by Mulder shaking him gently. His former partner had the passenger door open and was standing beside him. The height of the car put them almost on level and Krycek tried blearily to focus on Mulder's concerned features. He flinched away and groaned when Mulder shone a bright light into his eyes. Warm fingers took his chin and firmly pulled his face back into the light.

"I think you've got a slight concussion, Krycek. You're lucky, they were trying to give you more than a headache."

"I'd noticed," he muttered, then blinked and tried to sit up and take notice of his surroundings.

They were in a rest area off the interstate, lit by garish orange lights that stabbed at his eyes. It was nearly empty except for a couple of idling 18-wheelers. Krycek figured that he could take Mulder down with one sharp blow behind the ear that was offered so obligingly to him as his former partner rummaged in what looked like an EMT's jump kit on the floor at his feet. Then steal the keys and...dump Mulder or take him along, cuffed to the door? Payback time, he thought and began to try to coax his battered body into going along with the plan.

"Krycek, if you even think about hitting me, I swear I'll beat the shit out of you, then sell you back to those IRA geeks for a six-pack of green beer." Mulder's threat was delivered without heat as he laid out gauze pads, tape and antibiotic ointment, breath steaming in the chill night air.

Krycek saw the flash of his hand and heard a sharp smack! just as he flinched; he was frankly surprised when he realized that Mulder hadn't hit him. Something blessedly cold was laid against his bruised forehead - a chemical ice-pack. He automatically put up his hand and adjusted it, taking it from Mulder.

Krycek had to admit that he probably wasn't up to an escape yet; besides, Mulder's actions had him bewildered. They'd been together for at least half an hour and Mulder hadn't hit him once, was...helping him? he wondered vaguely just how hard that last shot he'd taken to the head had been. He blinked as Mulder wet a gauze pad with antiseptic and began dabbing at the various cuts on Krycek's face with an absorbed expression on his own.

His various cuts and contusions were taken care of in that same gentle, impersonal manner. "Anything else?" Mulder asked. Without thinking, Krycek answered truthfully,

"I think I've got a couple of cracked ribs and I could use another one of those cold packs for my groin."

He shivered suddenly and gasped as his abused ribs complained firmly.

"Nothing I can do about the ribs until we get home. Here," there was another smack! and another cold pack was laid on his thigh. "I'm not applying it for you," Mulder grinned that intensely annoying grin that used to make Krycek grit his teeth during their too-brief time as partners. Mulder took the spent cold pack from Krycek's forehead and waited for him to gingerly apply the fresh cold pack to his abused crotch. Then Mulder pressed a couple of pills into his hand and held out a bottle of spring water.

Krycek stared suspiciously at the innocuous white tablets until Mulder started laughing.

"They're Tylenol-3, Alex, nothing more insidious than that, I promise. Some Tylenol, some codeine -- come on, take them. You'll feel better," he coaxed.

Krycek foggily noted that Mulder actually seemed to care whether he felt better or not. Sheer astonishment carried the tablets and water to his mouth. The water seemed like a blessing flowing down his throat and he drank until the bottle was empty. When he lowered it, Mulder was watching him, a calculating look on his face.

"Here's the deal, Krycek. I'm not into kidnapping. If you don't want to be here, you can leave this ride right now. I'll even give you enough money for the bus. The Springfield bus stops here at 6 am. Or... you can come home with me and let us look after you for a while. Food, rest, quiet. No one will find you, I promise. What's it going to be?"

Krycek blinked and shivered with chill, certain that he was caught in another of his surreal Mulder dreams again. He looked directly into Mulder's eyes and was shocked at the ... hope? that he saw there.

"Why?"

Mulder looked away, stared toward the lights of other late-night travelers passing them by on the highway. "Call it paying a debt, if you like."

Alex's flight response wrestled with his exhaustion and pain. He was so tired of running; he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept the night through. He'd begun to slip; if he were honest, he'd admit that he'd lost his edge. It went when the last of his enemies lay dead, when the last of his one-time controllers was splattered around a gray cell somewhere distant and unmapped. He was so far gone that he had nearly let a couple of Mick bully-boys with delusions of adequacy take him out, only to be rescued by his dearest enemy. If it weren't so embarrassing and if it didn't hurt quite so much, he'd laugh himself sick.

And now that enemy was offering shelter, a quiet place to heal, sanctuary. 'Well, he reasoned fuzzily to himself as the tablets started to take hold, 'if I'm going to die, it might as well be Mulder. At least he has good reason to want me dead.' It was a measure of how far gone he was that this seemed like logic to him.

"Truce?" he asked.

"Truce," Mulder agreed, relief smoothing his face into a smile. "No assault, no lying, no stealing. You want to go, you leave. Fair enough?"

Krycek was so tired, he could only nod. He vaguely realized that he had made a key mistake, taking codeine on top of all of that alcohol; it was knocking him out. His eyes kept drifting shut and he felt a brief flare of instinctual desperation which flickered out when he realized that he really didn't care if Mulder was going to kill him. At least he didn't hurt quite so much any more.

He dimly registered Mulder fastening the seat belt around him again, then slamming the door. A second later, Mulder was saying something as he clambered into the driver's sleep, then Alex Krycek was sliding cold miles into dreamless sleep.

Somewhere on the Mass Pike, Alex woke up for a few moments. He shifted stiff muscles and immediately wished that he hadn't. He couldn't move his arm and he jerked in panic until he realized that he had a thick wool blanket tucked around him. Ribs, head and groin all began to throb in a muted cacophony and he moaned.

"How do you feel?"

Mulder's eyes were fixed on the highway in front of them as they sped through the night. The green dashboard lights gave the former FBI agent a pale, demented glow and Alex felt the desperate panic rising in him again, to become tangled with the pain from his physical injuries. He whimpered in confusion at the rush of conflicting impulses and didn't realize he'd even made a sound. Mulder handed him an open bottle of spring water.

"Drink that. It'll help. I can't give you any more painkillers for a while, not with that concussion."

He drank, then gathered his wits sufficiently to ask, "Where are we going?"

Mulder smiled briefly and said, "Home."

"Oh," Alex said. "Timizzit?"

"4 am. We'll be there soon."

"Where?" Krycek asked fuzzily.

"Home."

"Oh," Alex said, then handed Mulder the half-empty water bottle and went right back to sleep.

* * * * *

CANTO

Mulder smiled at how easy this had been. Finding Krycek had merely been a matter of putting the Lone Gunmen on the case and promising them exclusive use of the house during a prime summer weekend. Then it had been a waiting game, waiting for Krycek to use any of his aliases, a credit card, a calling card; waiting to hear about a one-armed man wheeling and dealing on the murkier edges of society. And sure enough, a mere two months later, up he bobbed. And now he had him. Finding him had been the easy part; getting him home was proving to be trouble-free as well. But Mulder had no illusions - the real fireworks would start as soon as he got Krycek home.

Home. Home was a hundred year old two-story gray-shingled Cape house, set low in the dunes of Eastham, facing the sea. Home was a tall man with scars on his belly, an iron jaw and hands that could soothe him from the darkest of nightmares. Home was the ragged kitten cradled in those big hands, rescued from beneath a demolished shed last autumn. Home was also the easy-going setter puppy Skinner had accepted as payment in kind for weather-proofing a poor family's home before the tough weather set in. Home was lying for hours on the couch, watching the fire and listening to the wind and Walter's low voice reading aloud to him. It was the first real home he'd had since he was twelve -- and he was going to bring Alex Krycek, liar, thief, murderer, traitor, collaborator, resistance fighter, spy...the man made a profession out of being an unknown factor... into it.

He sighed and hoped that Walter hadn't had too hard a night. A sleepy tractable Walter Skinner would definitely be an asset here.

* * * * *

Walter Skinner had had a miserable night. A night that had begun early yesterday afternoon with a general call-out for the entire volunteer fire department. It had rapidly escalated into a four-alarm blaze that had mobilized fire companies from all over the Cape. He had spent the last 14 hours racing from site to site as the wind blew the brush fire up the seashore, treating firefighters for smoke inhalation, dressing minor burns, doing triage on one major burn case, and trying to pump fluids into every firefighter he could find. Sometime around 3 am, he had even taken his turn on the fire line, shoveling earth into the fire's greedy maw, trying to choke it out before it ate another neighbor's house, scarred another firefighter.

The tide had turned shortly after that and they had all been sent home as fresh volunteers arrived from Hyannis and Brewster. 7 am and he was finally dragging himself up the front stairs of the house, hoping that Fox had some coffee going. No such luck, he was probably still asleep. Walter dropped his boots by the door and stripped off his outer shirt, grimacing at the sooty mark it left on the counter.

The dog came trotting in, his red fan of a tail swishing gently in cheerful welcome. Skinner patted his head absently and opened the fridge. Only now was he realizing how thirsty he was himself; he grabbed the orange juice and fumbled for a glass before muttering "The hell with it," and drinking out of the carton. He hated it whenever Mulder did that and he felt a pleasurable jab of rebellion. He finished the carton, standing in front of the open refrigerator, then threw it away.

Mulder's cat showed up, jumped onto the counter, then up onto the top of the refrigerator where it sat looking expectant. "No. You were fed. Go catch a mouse." The cat, recognizing this as the first volley of their daily battle, merely blinked and chirped sociably at him. He ruffled its ears, then trailed upstairs to find Fox and a shower, not necessarily in that order.

No Mulder in the bedroom. Skinner stripped, dropping his filthy clothes in the hamper, then wrapped a towel around his waist before wandering into the bathroom. Which was occupied.

It took his exhausted and smoked brain a few seconds to register what...*who* he was seeing in his bathroom. When all his synapses finally connected, Skinner thrust himself backwards into the bedroom, bounced and rolled over the bed, snatching his gun out of the bedside table. He found himself covering a battered, half-dressed Alex Krycek, who had been sitting slumped on top of the toilet with his head in his hands. The bleary eyes were now fixed on Skinner and on the unwavering weapon in his hands.

* * * * *

"MULDER!"

Two voices came floating down the hall to him-- one was a demanding roar and the other a plaintive yelp. So much for the sleepy and acquiescent Skinner he'd been hoping for. Dropping the blanket on the bed he'd been making, Mulder sprinted down the hall and skidded into the bathroom.

Sleepy. Tractable. Right. Walter Skinner looked about as tractable as a brick wall. As did the Glock he gripped in both hands, aiming the muzzle directly at Krycek's head.

Mulder took a deep breath. "Uh, Walter... put it down, okay?"

"Mulder," his lover said coolly, "in case you hadn't noticed, Alex Krycek is in our bathroom. Tell me how this is a good thing." The gun remained pointing steadily at Krycek's throbbing forehead. "I admit he looks like something the cat dragged in from the dunes, but he's still Alex Krycek. Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw him out with the rest of the garbage."

Tired but steady, Mulder reached a hand out to Skinner's arm, pushing down on it, forcing Skinner to move his aim, however involuntarily, to the floor. "Because I brought him here. We got in about half an hour before you did."

Skinner set the gun down on top of a wicker hamper, just beyond Krycek's reach. He leaned against the glass door of the shower. "You brought him here," Skinner said levelly. "May I ask why you dragged Alex Krycek into the house and stashed him in the bathroom?"

"He's here in the bathroom because I haven't finished making the guest room bed and because I want to get a good look at a couple of his injuries. I'd rather have you look at them, actually; you're the one who knows what he's looking at.

"He's in the house because I went after him. He got mixed up in a small IRA blowup down in the Catskills; the Gunmen called me yesterday afternoon while I was writing and asked me if anything ought to get done. Considering that the O'Keefe boys were involved - remember those cases we had involving Brady and Connor O'Keefe? - I figured that getting him out of there was the easiest solution. So I drove down and picked him up. They apparently hadn't heard I'd left the Bureau because Connor and little cousin Billy looked pretty damn scared to see me. I hardly had to beat anyone up to get to him."

Skinner stared. "So you brought a Russian ex-Consortium agent who's got enemies in the Irish Republican Army sympathizers and likes to murder people's relatives into my house. Wonderful."

"It's our house, Walter. I paid two-thirds, if I have to remind you." Mulder's voice was steady. The remark was cutting, but not incendiary. "I think I've got a say about who stays here. And you know as well as I do that he didn't kill Scully's sister."

"Excuse me," Krycek said. "Can I have some more codeine? "

Mulder glanced at his watch. "Yeah, I guess you can handle some more Tylenol-3."

Knowing that he probably didn't want to know the answer, Walter Skinner asked, "What's wrong with him?"

"Some bruised ribs, a couple of cracked ones I think, but he's breathing okay and I don't think he's got any internal bleeding. I'd rather have you check, though."

A practical medical emergency delivered to him on a platter was something that Walter Skinner found easier to assimilate, despite his exhaustion, than the surreal possibility that Mulder had Alex Krycek, triple agent, stashed in their bathroom. After another hard stare at Mulder, Skinner grabbed his robe off the back of the door and belted it around himself before starting to line up first aid supplies on the vanity.

Mulder looked nearly as relieved as he felt; his lover had shifted into "coping with an emergency" mode. If Skinner could handle the medical end, Mulder could handle Skinner. Skinner began easing off Krycek's shirt. Mulder heard a "Jesus H. Christ" and a low whistle from Skinner as he began to examine the wounded man.

They had come a long way, in a very short time, from their days at the FBI.

* * * * *

PROTHALAMION

Fox Mulder, jacket and tie off, had been slouched sideways on the couch, his long legs lying across Walter Skinner's lap, on an April evening two years before. Both men had been putting a serious hurt into a bottle of Skinner's best scotch after the events of that day. You couldn't have paid Fox Mulder to believe that the Consortium would collapse on itself even a few months before this. But internal rifts on policy and procedure among the Consortium's members, the abandonment of their allies and their enemies, not to mention the Mulder assassination debate which had played out for several years, had finally caused it to implode as member turned on member. The final member assassinations had produced a sensational set of hearings. Only today Mulder and Skinner had stood in a packed federal courtroom as a cancer-riddled older man whose name had finally been disclosed was sentenced to life in prison for treason. The war, unbelievably, was over.

"I'm tired," Skinner sighed to his companion, who was idly playing with the television remote control.

"Did you want to turn in early?" Mulder inquired.

"I don't mean that kind of tired," Skinner replied. "I'm sick and tired. I'm tired of bullshit. I'm tired of lies, conspiracies, backstabbing, double dealing. I'm tired of the garbage. The paperwork. The fucking Bureau one-upmanship. The whole damn thing. I'm not enjoying myself any more - not that I ever was - and I'm sick of it."

Mulder sat up straight and looked at Skinner. He'd never heard this from Skinner before, but the man appeared to be perfectly serious. In the several years they had worked together, in the few months since they had begun seeing each other, Mulder had never harbored any doubt that the Bureau was Walter Skinner's life. He could see himself leaving the Bureau now that the Consortium was down, now that he had found out what little could be learned about the secrets in his own family, but he would never have thought it of Skinner. Still, he didn't appear to be lying. "You mean it, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. Mulder, I want out. I've given them my twenty years, and I want the hell out of there. I want to go live on the beach in a shack, make furniture, and shoot at anyone who comes to bother me. I've got enough money coming to me to live on, especially if I sell this place." He downed the rest of his tumbler of Scotch. "I've been thinking about it for a few weeks now, and it's going to happen. I can have my resignation on the Director's desk at the end of next week."

Mulder sipped thoughtfully at his drink. They had been together only a few months, and some issues had never been addressed between them. It might be time to raise them. "Are you serious?"

Skinner nodded. "I've never been more serious in my entire life."

"Then I only have one question for you."

"What's that?" Skinner inquired as he reached for the bottle.

"Where are we going and when do we leave?"

Skinner set his glass down firmly. "Did you say, 'we'?"

"Yeah."

"Are *you* serious? I mean, really, Mulder?"

There was a very pleasing light coming up in Skinner's eyes and it made Mulder's voice a little rougher than usual as he said,

"Absolutely. I've got nothing left here at the Bureau now. And I might as well leave while I can rub the VCU's and Behavioral's respective noses in the dirt. Looks like old Spooky was right all along. I can stay and never have this kind of triumph again or I can go out in a blaze of glory and leave with you."

"You could write your own ticket if you stayed, Mulder. You're so hot right now they'd give you my job if you wanted it."

"Yeah. Or I could leave, write a pile of magazine articles for the science and paranoia journals, and hit the talk show circuit. I got a call before I left the office today. I've been offered a book contract."

Skinner looked at Mulder with something akin to awe. "No shit."

"They want a book about my investigation into the alien coverups. I could be speaking at sci-fi conventions for the next ten years. Do college campus tours speaking about the government and the little gray men; they'll pay me a hefty speaker's fee for babbling about the same stuff that used to get me kicked out of bars. Or I can stay at the Bureau. Do I look stupid, Walter?"

The other man grinned, then dragged Mulder into his lap again. "And to think all I was going to do was find a shack on the beach and do my woodworking," he said meditatively nuzzling at Mulder's ear.

"You could still do the woodworking. It's just going to be a really nice beach shack. And I think I know just where to find one."

* * * * *

Eastham was as close to home as Mulder cared to get. Home, as it had been called, was a town with too many bad memories. But he had always liked Eastham, and had played with his sister and with his friends along the beach there many times. It was at the candy shop in Eastham that he had his first "date" many years ago, taking a girl there for an ice cream cone. He had been all of ten, flush with money from helping clean the attic. She had been nine, the daughter of some summer people. The romance had lasted all of three hours, or so family recollection went.

The old Morris place, up in the dunes, had been one of his favorite haunts. Looking every inch an abandoned house, he and his friends went by to see if the ghosts at the Morris place really did come out at night and dance in the dunes. Mrs. Morris was dead these twelve years. Her children were in California now; his mother had said that they never came back to the Cape. Two days after he and Skinner had placed their letters of resignation on the Director's desk, he had bundled Skinner into the car for a drive to the Cape. The Morris property had, as Mulder recalled, a couple of ramshackle outbuildings on it. If they were still standing, surely one could be refurbished into a carpentry shop. The thought of fitting out the other for a place to hook up his computer and set up shop writing hadn't escaped him.

* * * * *

Scully had looked at him in astonishment when he told her.

"You're resigning. You're leaving DC. You're writing a book. You're moving back to Cape Cod. You're moving to Cape Cod where you just bought a house with Walter Skinner. Mulder, this is more information than my brain can process at one time."

"Gee, Scully," Mulder chuckled. "Which part was too much for you?"

"I know you want me to tell you that it's the part about you and Skinner. It's not, Mulder. I'd suspected something like that. Give me some credit; I'm not blind or stupid. What gets me is, I've read your reports -- and you really think you can write a book?"

But she had been glad for him, in the end. And it was with something like relief that she had pulled a file folder out of her desk drawer and shown him the contents -- her own resignation paperwork.

* * * * *

Skinner dried his hands on one of the towels. "Looks like the codeine's kicking in," he told Mulder. "Krycek's ready to sleep. He's going to hurt like hell when he tries to sit up, though; he's got two cracked ribs. A very minor concussion, bruises, contusions, the usual. But he's pretty worn down, Mulder. I'd say he's exhausted, about 20 lbs underweight and he's going to have a winner of a hangover when he wakes up."

They were back in the bathroom, having gently manhandled a semi-conscious Krycek into bed in the guest room. Skinner had treated Krycek's wounds without a word, unless it was to ask if something hurt and how much and how to unstrap his prosthesis. He hadn't missed the new scars, the poorly healed ones, the evidence of a hard life lived too fast.

"Speaking of waking up, can I take my shower and get some sleep now?" he asked pointedly.

Mulder nodded and picked up the towels and washcloths they'd used. "I need one myself. Want me to set up the coffee pot?"

"Might not be a bad idea. Right now, though, all I want to do is crawl in and sleep for a couple of days. That brush fire job was nasty. Too many men down. Smoke inhalation. Thought we were never going to get it under control." Skinner was usually terse; this degree of brevity, however, was reserved for when he really was bone tired. Or maybe it was a sign of how much Skinner was trying *not* to say.

Mulder put an arm around his lover, kissed him quickly, and took the towels out of the room. Skinner headed for the shower. The setter, Casey - the prior owner's children had already named him - trotted into the bathroom to see what was what. "Good Casey. Quiet, boy. I know it's daytime, but people are sleeping. No barking. Go back downstairs and bother the cat."

The dog gave a small "whuff" of understanding and went trotting back downstairs with an air of determination that made Skinner laugh. The dog had been trying to get the better of the huge Maine Coon cat for a year; it was a low-level war, more noise than actual damage and the participants seemed to enjoy it immensely.

Back in the bathroom, he finally got to climb into the hot shower he had been craving since sometime late yesterday. Walter let the water pound on the back of his neck and wash away the acrid mixture of smoke and sweat and fear from his skin. His over-tired muscles relaxed into the warmth and he felt the adrenaline high that had begun with the instant he recognized Alex Krycek finally seeping away.

Krycek. Mulder had actually brought Alex Krycek into their home and he was behaving as if this were a good idea. Mulder had even made up the guest room -no balconies for Krycek this time. What the hell was going on? Walter briefly considered the possibility that he was hallucinating, but the water was growing steadily cooler as he stood there - they needed a new water heater - and that lent a brisk lick of reality to the entire insane incident.

Which meant that Mulder wanted him here for a reason. Skinner reviewed the facts as he knew them to date, while toweling himself dry. One: Mulder had had the Lone Gunmen looking for Krycek - Skinner didn't believe for an instant that the three paranoia fiends would just happen to stumble across an IRA arms deal on their own. Two: Mulder had gone and rescued Krycek out of the teeth of the O'Keefes, without official sanction, support or backup - memo: Strangle Mulder for doing anything that stupid without him. Three: Krycek was suffering from more than a simple beating; the man was exhausted, way underweight and had a collection of poorly tended scars that would have made a Marseilles dockworker proud.

Skinner wandered into the bedroom and looked longingly at the bed - king-sized flannel sheets and a down comforter caroled a siren song- but his mind worried away at the problem like a terrier on a rat. No sleep yet, not until he knew what the hell was going on here. Sighing, he pulled some sweats out of the bureau and winced a little as over-strained muscles reminded him that he wasn't a kid any more and he'd worked too damned hard last night, all night.

Going over the facts again as he dressed, Skinner was faced with two working theories. One: Mulder knew something of what Krycek had done for him and this was his way of repaying him. Two: Mulder had finally lost whatever was left of his questionable sanity and had decided to open a shelter for abused and unwanted assassins.

There was a faint but tantalizing scent of fresh-brewed coffee in the air. He followed it downstairs, pausing beside the half-open guest room door to check on their guest/prisoner/stray cat. Krycek was lying on his side, curled into a near fetal position. He frowned in his sleep, as if unable to fully relax. His hand lay outside the covers, clenching and jerking; whatever Krycek's dreams were, they weren't pretty. Skinner pulled the door closed firmly and went downstairs to tackle Mulder.

Mulder greeted him with a cup of black coffee and a determinedly innocuous expression on his face. "French toast in a minute," he said and waved Walter over to sit at the set kitchen table. Resigned to his fate, Skinner sat down and waited for his breakfast and the bad news. After a couple of restorative sips of coffee, he said,

"Mulder - the Donna Reed thing is *not* you. Although you do have a nice hint of June Lockhart in there. Just tell me why you want Alex Krycek upstairs and not in a federal lock-up. And stop *bustling*," he added irritably, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

Mulder smiled wryly. "Busted," he agreed, then divided the french toast onto two plates and brought them over to the table, ignoring Casey's hopeful look. He sat across from Skinner and there was a pause while Mulder went through the elaborate ritual with butter and maple syrup that Walter had become familiar with in the past three years. Once everything was swimming in calories and cholesterol, Mulder looked up and said,

"I owe him, Walter."

Ah, so it was Theory One, then. Mulder was indebted, not insane. Some comfort. Skinner sighed and reached for his fork. They ate in silence for a time.

"You're not even going to argue with me about it?"

"What do you want me to say, Mulder? You know what he is, just as much as I do. He's hurt you, and me, and Scully in ways that no one else has or ever could. Yet you still want to help him. OK - you must have your reasons. You'll tell me when you feel you can." Skinner could feel his jaw starting to clench and he worked hard on relaxing it.

Mulder let his breath out in a whistle. "Jeez -- when the hell did you get to be the grown-up around here, Walter?"

He shrugged and chased the last piece of toast around in his syrup.

They sat, unspeaking for a time. Skinner watched the gray Atlantic swell and crash onto the beach below the house. Rain started to fall, churning up the sea and darkening the sand to pewter. Mulder finally spoke.

"He was the one who kept sending all the information on the Consortium members, Walter. He *gave* us the Smoking Man on a platter."

"I know."

Mulder looked confounded. "How?"

"I had them take prints off the packages. We found one partial thumb print on one tape and got a pretty good full index finger from the flap of another."

Skinner wanted very badly to smirk at the sight of Fox Mulder with his mouth hanging open in shock. Instead, he drank some more coffee.

"You had a forensics team go over MY evidence?!"

"Yes," he said simply but with relish.

"Why? Didn't you trust me?"

"Mulder - in six years of working together, when did you and Scully ever give me the full story, unvarnished, without obfuscating, lying or omitting crucial facts?"

"That's not the point!"

"That's exactly the point. And, speaking of points, weren't we discussing our house guest?"

"Fine. Be reasonable," Mulder snarled, but Skinner could see the gleam of humor in his eye as Mulder realized that he had been outmaneuvered. "We'll come back to the trust issue later," he promised.

We usually do, Walter thought with a touch of grimness. "Can we take this somewhere more comfortable?" he asked.

They ended up on the couch in front of the fire that Mulder lit. They sat unspeaking at opposite ends of the sofa for an entire five minutes before Mulder sighed loudly and threw himself at Skinner. After a few breathless minutes of pushing, prodding and kissing, they wound up with Skinner lying on his back, Mulder draped all along his length, head tucked beneath Skinner's chin.

"So, about Krycek...?" Walter prompted, one hand stroking down Mulder's long, muscular back.

"He gave me back my sister."

Ah. That was the true debt, Skinner thought. Fox had found his sister again; the two were as close as he could have wanted for them. She and her family were frequent visitors and gave his lover a kind of foundation, a stability that nothing, *no one*, else could ever achieve for him. And Walter had to acknowledge his own debt to Krycek; Samantha was as much his sister now, teasing and loving him, accepting his place in her brother's life without a word.

"Damn," he whispered into Mulder's hair, giving in.

"Hmm?"

"How long is he staying with us, Mulder?" He could feel Mulder's smile against the skin of his throat.

"I don't know, Walter. He's pretty beat up. Maybe a couple of weeks?"

Walter sighed and shifted Mulder's weight slightly. "Fine," he grumbled. "But we are not opening a Home for Wayward Spies, got it? No more strays."

"Hey! Who brought home the cat? And the dog?"

"Neither of whom are wanted by the FBI nor the O'Keefes. Speaking of which..."

"The FBI got them last night - Langly and Byers dropped a dime on them as soon as I got Krycek out of there. And, before you ask, no one followed us and no one got our plate number. I had it blacked out until I was over the Connecticut border."

Skinner sighed and tried to count the number of felonies his lover had committed last night, then gave up. "So the IRA isn't going to be showing up here any time soon, nor our old friends from the FBI...is anyone else after him?"

"Not that the Gunmen could tell."

"Oh good. We don't have enough spare rooms."

Mulder leaned up and stared down into Skinner's face.

"You're taking this rather well," he accused.

Skinner only smiled and pulled Mulder back down onto his chest again. He was feeling tired and warm and well-fed and loved, and he wanted to enjoy the sensation. No, he had to be honest with himself; he wanted to store up this memory against the lonely time he could see just ahead, just around the curve.

Mulder and Krycek had always been circling around one another, always drawn together but unable to complete the circuit that whispered and sung between them. All those years ago, Skinner could see it, Mulder's fascination with his younger partner. It had never dimmed, not even through the betrayals, the reverses, the revelations. And now, Krycek was upstairs, hurt and helpless, claws sheathed and fangs hidden. The man who had given Mulder all that he had ever wanted, revenge and redemption, lay sleeping under his roof and all Skinner could do was tighten his hold on the man who was slipping away as surely as the rain drops ran down the windows.

After a time, they slept.

* * * * *

When Krycek came downstairs, early in the afternoon, the first thing he saw was an oak plank coffee table, yesterday's paper and a copy of "Discover" with Mulder's name on the cover tossed carelessly on it. There was a paperback copy of "The Unsuspected Aliens", Mulder's second book, peeking out from under a stack of Enquirers. An end table which matched the coffee table caught Krycek's eye.

There was a group of framed photos grouped on it. A large silver frame on the table held a Christmas photograph of Samantha Mulder Cummings, her husband, and their twins, Jessica and Courtney, familiar to him from his occasional private surveillance activities. A smaller photograph on the table showed Mulder and Skinner with the girls. Mulder and Skinner, Krycek thought. Thinking was a feat he was barely capable of handling, hurting and hungover, but he knew he was missing something.

Mulder and Skinner?

The pain engendered by thinking nearly sent Krycek back to bed, but the smell of coffee in the kitchen compelled him to push onward. Then he saw the living room couch. Skinner was still draped across the couch, sprawling on it comfortably, with Fox Mulder curled against his chest. There - that was what hadn't registered. Krycek blinked twice and pursed his lips, leaning against the doorframe.

When had Mulder and Skinner become lovers? He had been aware that Skinner had retired after the Consortium hearings, had known that Mulder had quit to take up writing; how had he missed this? His grapevine wasn't what it had been once, any more than his reflexes were what they had been.

He moved silently through the living room - at least he still had that skill -and on into the kitchen. Finding a stoneware mug, he poured himself coffee and reviewed the food. After some consideration, he decided on a bagel as the least threatening to his delicate condition. The dog came over, sniffed his hand, licked it happily. The cat glowered from the top of the refrigerator, a looming feline monstrosity with bright eyes. Huge, luminous greenish eyes, making him think of Mulder again. The cat had to be Mulder's. Cat and human could not be more like one another.

So Mulder and Skinner were lovers. A bit of a surprise, that. And a disappointment. Why had Mulder rescued him? Once, when they were partners, Krycek recalled, there had been the intriguing possibility of claiming Mulder for himself. The Consortium had moved too quickly on Scully, destroying that dream. That Mulder had still had feelings for him he knew only too well; Mulder's harassment of him had always had a heavily sexual element to it.

A few years ago, when he had led Mulder to the UFO pilot, there had been a moment... the only time he had ever had the chance to kiss Mulder. The look on Mulder's face had told him everything then; the feelings were still there. Last night, when Mulder had rescued him from the O'Keefes, he had allowed himself to imagine that those feelings might have had something to do with the rescue effort. But Skinner and Mulder looked far too settled, far too comfortable, for that to be likely - and it was plain that Skinner didn't relish Krycek's presence in what was obviously their home.

Propping his feet up on one of the other kitchen chairs in a vain attempt to ease his aching ribs, Krycek ate slowly, nursed his coffee and watched the rain through the kitchen window. If he could manage it, a walk on the beach might be in order later. There was no better way to think. And, no matter how much it hurt, thinking seemed to be required now.

* * * * *

The cat stepping on his face wakened Skinner. He growled at it, took a half-hearted swipe and then blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember why they were sacked out on the couch. Memory gradually seeped back in and he shifted, trying to wake the man who still drowsed against him.

"Mulder... we'd better wake up...."

Mulder shifted. "Why? I'm comfortable."

"Yeah, but it's two o'clock. And we ought to check on Krycek." Skinner wriggled beneath Mulder emphatically to provoke movement. "Besides, Casey probably wants to go out."

"I already let the dog out."

The voice came from the armchair across the room. Krycek was slouched in it with a plastic bag of ice against his right side, reading a section of the Boston Globe. A mug was balanced on the chair's arm.

"I made more coffee if you want any. Mulder, you must have made that last pot. Your coffee sucked when we were partners and it hasn't improved much yet."

"Gee, thanks, Alex." Mulder sat upright and stretched. "Still raining?"

"No, it stopped about half an hour ago."

Skinner drew himself up slowly, grimacing as sore muscles complained. He was trying hard to ignore the prickle of unease he felt at the idea that he and Mulder had been sleeping peacefully with Alex Krycek sitting across the room, watching them.

"Krycek, you ought to be back in bed. I'd like to check your temperature, too." Skinner got up and headed for the stairs.

Alex Krycek, too bewildered by any show of concern from such an unlikely direction, made no reply as Skinner left the room. Mulder still sat on the sofa, blinking. He was rumpled and adorable looking and Alex felt something twist inside himself. Mulder ran a hand through his hair and looked up to catch Krycek watching him.

"What?"

"How long have you two been an item?"

Unfazed by the other man's bluntness, Mulder said,

"Don't ever let Walter hear you say that. I think that he thinks people might not know. Hell, the whole town knows it. And it's not like we don't live near Provincetown or anything.

"How long? Pushing three years now. We'd started seeing each other just before the hearings started. By the time they ended, Walter decided he wanted to take his twenty and retire. And I wasn't ready to stay in DC without him. So here we are. He's got his woodshop, I write; it works for us."

"Wood shop?"

"Yeah. Walter decided to take an old hobby of his into full time work. He does furniture, some house carpentry, odd jobs around town. Mostly furniture, though. He did the tables in here, and the kitchen set. There are a couple of outbuildings here; one was a large shed of some sort, and one was a kitchen. Walter made the shed over into a woodworking studio and I do my writing out in the old kitchen."

"Jesus. The Boy Wonder of the FBI and his boss turn into artists' colony residents. Guess I'll have to take up pottery if I stay here."

"No, but basket weaving's in big demand right now, and so is tole painting."

Krycek grinned and was half-surprised when Mulder smiled back, eyes gleaming. Had they ever been this relaxed with one another? He didn't think so.

"You're in love with him?" Alex was surprised to hear the words coming out of his own mouth. It had to be the drugs.

Mulder didn't seem fazed by the question, though. "God, what a question. Absolutely. I wasn't sure until the day he told me he was retiring. But when I realized that he really *could* throw it out the window and walk away from the Bureau... well, I figured that I needed to be with Walter a lot more than I needed to be with the FBI. So I handed my resignation in the same day he filed his retirement papers. Then we came up here and bought the house. I knew this place when I was a kid."

"So how did Scully take the news?"

"Which news? That I was leaving or that Walter and I were running away together? She was a lot happier about one than the other... but she finally did accept that forensic work really is her best thing. She's a medical examiner in Philly now; teaches part-time at Penn. Her husband's a professor of psychiatric medicine at Penn. Nice guy; I like him. They came up at Easter and I think they're coming for Christmas."

"Fox Mulder goes domestic. I can't believe it. You know, Mulder... back when we were partners... did you ever wonder..."

"Constantly," Mulder chuckled as he flipped through the television listings. "You wanted me bad, Alex. I knew damn well that you were drooling on the floor every time I turned around."

"I was drooling? Hell, I caught you checking me out enough times, even with that geek haircut I had back then. Come on - that time in Hong Kong? You could have had a piece of me faster than McDonald's sells burgers and you knew it. So why didn't you ever move on it?"

"Why didn't *you*, Alex? You had plenty of chances, and the only times you ever got close to trying were in Tunguska and that night in my apartment when you actually kissed me. Not great examples of romantic timing. Now, why I didn't go after you - you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"Nope. Can't do it. You'd never buy it."

"What are you gonna do, Mulder - claim you were a virgin?" Krycek could feel his mouth hanging open.

"Took the words right out of my mouth."

"Liar." But Mulder, unbelievably, was blushing.

"I said you wouldn't believe me, Alex." He had obviously had enough of playing 'True Confessions' for a time. He ran his hands through his hair again, then stood up and asked,

"How do you feel?"

Surprised again, Krycek answered honestly. "I feel like hell."

"You look like it, Krycek." Alex started at the sound of Skinner's voice, jerking his gaze from Mulder's. The big man moved surprisingly quietly. He had dressed in jeans and a navy river driver's shirt that seemed to emphasize the muscles in his arms and chest. His expression was neutral and Alex couldn't tell how much, if any, of their conversation he had heard. Mulder smiled gently, touched Alex once on the shoulder, then rubbed against Walter on the way out of the room.

Krycek was left to Walter Skinner's tender mercies. "Let's get you upstairs." He slipped an arm under Krycek's good shoulder and walked him slowly back up to the guest room. Once there, Skinner had him sit on the bed. At Skinner's terse direction, he slowly took off his filthy shirt and allowed his sore ribs to be poked and prodded, then his head.

"You weren't actually concussed. But I'll bet you have a hell of a hangover; you smelled like a brewery this morning."

Krycek nodded, then decided to stop. The Tylenol had helped with the headache but he still felt fragile. And confused. If he had been asked, only yesterday, he would have said that Walter Skinner was high on the list of "Those Who Most Wanted to Kick the Shit Out of Alex Krycek" - definitely in the top five.

Still pondering, he pursed his lips around the thermometer Skinner had shoved into his mouth. Skinner slid a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. He considered further as the cuff squeezed, then loosened with a hiss.

He wondered vaguely if Skinner knew how much he had wanted Mulder, once upon a time. How he had fantasized about that body, those eyes, that voice speaking softly to him, only to him. Definitely not, he decided. If Skinner had known, Krycek had no doubt that he would be occupying a damp hole somewhere out in the dunes.

Skinner was putting away his equipment. Krycek started to shrug back into his shirt. Skinner reached an impersonal hand and took it away from him. He held out a fresh flannel shirt. Alex took it and slowly began to pull it on. Skinner reached over to help ease it back over his shoulders, looming over him. There was a warm, spicy scent this close to Skinner's body and Krycek felt his dizziness rising again. "So, doc, will I live?" he tried for an impudent, light tone.

Skinner smiled down at him as he straightened the collar. "If you're a good boy and do everything I tell you." For some reason, something in that smile made Krycek shiver.

Everything had really gone to hell the moment Mulder had shown up. Before then, it had been a blissfully simple equation - Alex Krycek snarling and snapping his way through a hostile world. Not bright, not very pleasant, but it was all he had come to expect. In some ways, he knew it was what he deserved. The gun Skinner had pulled on him this morning had been expected, familiar, almost a welcome relief in what had become a bewildering scenario. But all hope of a return to SOP had faded when Mulder had gotten Skinner to patch him up. Then, all the cozy domesticity he had witnessed ... he shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Head still hurt?" Skinner asked, holding out a small glass of something amber.

"A bit," Krycek admitted, taking the glass and sniffing it. Scotch. He looked up to see Skinner watching him. "What?"

"Let's just say that this is not what I expected," Skinner said with a wry twist to his lips.

"I'll drink to that," Krycek said fervently. They solemnly raised their glasses to one another, then drank. Krycek felt the excellent single malt rolling through him, spreading warmth and pushing back that fragile feeling.

"So, what happens to me now?"

"Now?" Skinner repeated. "Nothing. Whatever you want. You eat and sleep a lot. Heal."

"Why are you doing this?" Krycek couldn't help the bewildered whine that crept into his voice. The scotch must be hitting him, he thought.

"Because Mulder wants it," Skinner said simply.

Shortly after that, Skinner had taken away the glass and eased Krycek back into bed. He had pulled the covers over the younger man, propped a pillow against the damaged ribs and left without saying another word.

* * * * *

CAESURA

The next few days were a codeine blur to Krycek. His injuries sapped whatever remaining strength he had and he spent most of his time asleep. Mulder would awaken him and he would dress in borrowed clothing. Then Skinner would check him over and he would stagger down to eat whatever was put in front of him. Then he would retire to the couch to read, eyes flickering over the same page again and again before falling asleep there. Or, if the weather were mild enough, he would wrap up in a borrowed parka and sit for hours on the front porch, staring at the sea.

The evenings were quiet, spent watching TV, reading, listening to music. Their conversation was light, studiously avoiding any potentially explosive topics. Alex frequently found himself falling into reveries, staring into the driftwood fire or watching Mulder's hand meditatively stroking Maxie's fur. When startled out of them, he could never remember what he had been thinking.

Mulder and Skinner were surprisingly restful, non intrusive companions, coming and going in regular patterns like the tide. They gave him space and quiet, demanding nothing from him. More than once he had been awakened by one of them tucking a blanket around him, or removing the book from his lax fingers. More disturbing were the times that he awakened to find traces of their care. He took it as simply more proof that he had lost whatever edge he had once had that he could sleep through someone *touching* him.

Skinner was frequently gone during the day doing his odd-job carpentry in the towns up and down the Upper Cape. Mulder spent most of his time writing, or staring into space and avoiding writing. Krycek quickly grew familiar with Mulder's work habits, they weren't so different from his work habits at the Bureau. Two hours of time-wasting followed by six hours of intense productivity. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, he usually remembered to eat lunch; when he did, he fed Krycek too.

If Skinner were working at home that day, meals were more regular. Alex was amused to discover that Skinner was the more concerned with making certain that Krycek ate; he had even politely inquired as to Krycek's favorite foods. When they began appearing at breakfast and dinner, Alex felt vaguely guilty for merely tossing out some names. The man had gone to some trouble for him, but how to explain that he didn't much care what he ate? That nothing had much savor any more? That without the constant low-level headache, the ache in his ribs, the tenderness in his groin, that without these, he wouldn't have been certain that he were awake?

It was an odd sensation, being taken care of. Swallowing the vitamin tablets handed to him, allowing his temperature to be taken, gentle hands taping his ribs, impersonal hands helping him shower. It was unsettling to be the focus of so much politely distanced concern and it made him sullen and snappish. Except at night.

At night, the concern was no longer distanced and he hung onto it desperately. The nightmares banished all pride, all caution, all possibility of sleep. It was the same story every night. He went to bed when his hosts did, around midnight. Within two hours, he always found himself bolt upright, throat hoarse from screaming and face stinging from the slaps needed to bring him out of it. The worst of it was, he could never remember what he had dreamed - the terror was nameless, faceless, limitless.

No - the worst of it was that it was Mulder who woke him. Mulder who saw him screaming and gasping, tears pouring down his face. Mulder who held him until the shaking stopped, who never said a word about the episodes in the daylight. Mulder who never said a word at night, but who lightly kissed his forehead as he left him, soothed into silence. Who never knew that Alex lay, unsleeping, staring at the shadows on the ceiling until dawn.

So Alex caught up on his sleep during the day and tried hard not to notice the dark circles under Mulder's eyes.

One night it was Skinner who brought him out of it. For a wonder, he awoke without his own hoarse screams grating in his ears. He swallowed dryly and stared at Walter Skinner, who loomed among the other shadows, real and imagined, in his room.

"You were dreaming again. I happened to hear you before you could really get going." He stood beside the bed, wrapped in an old flannel robe. Without his glasses, he seemed both more human and more remote.

"Good. Mulder could use one night's uninterrupted sleep," Alex said and wiped the sweat from his face on the sheet.

"Do you remember what you were dreaming about?" The voice, cool, interested but not pressing, soothed him like water.

"No. I never do. It's all dark. Nothing to see..." his voice trailed off. After a moment, Alex said slowly,

"You know, when I was on the run, I never had nightmares? All those years - I never had a single bad dream. Slept like a baby any time I could. I only get them when I'm not in danger. Like there's some conservation of horror in my life. If there's enough on the outside, the shit inside takes a break. Here's the punch line, Skinner - you'll like the irony - it's only when I'm somewhere safe that I can't sleep." He smiled bitterly up at Walter Skinner, expecting him to share the joke.

Those dark eyes were unreadable in the moonlit room. Then Skinner flipped back the covers. "Get up."

Krycek looked at him, uncomprehending. Skinner put one hand on Krycek's bare shoulder. "Come on, get up."

Without understanding, Krycek slid out of bed, shivering in his borrowed shorts. Skinner's hand propelled him out of his room, down the hall and into the master bedroom.

"Skinner, what's going on here?"

"I'm going to help you get a night's sleep, Alex," the deep voice told him. The hand on his shoulder pushed him gently toward the large bed. He could see Mulder curled asleep on the far side of the bed, burrowed under the comforter.

Without understanding, Krycek allowed Skinner to push him down onto the bed. At Skinner's shove, he slid over, under the comforter, closer to Mulder. Then he lay down next to Krycek, not touching him, but cowing him with the sense of his strength and mass. The warm flannel against his chilled and sweat-soaked skin made him shiver.

That deep voice rumbled in his ear. "You're now in the most dangerous place in the world, Krycek. You're in between me and Mulder. You ought to be able to sleep just fine here...just fine. Pleasant dreams."

Then the comforter was pulled up to his chin and he listened to the man beside him settling, pushing the pillow into a better position, sighing as the warmth gathered him close.

Walter Skinner, a man he had beaten and robbed, lay beside him. Fox Mulder, the man he had betrayed and beaten, lied to and loved, lay beside him. If he stretched out one hand toward him, Skinner would know in an instant. Mulder's crisp fragrance and Skinner's spicy scent wrapped around him, making his head swim. Best to close his eyes until the dizziness passed. Within moments, he was asleep.

Somewhere deep in the night, Krycek awoke. No terror, no screaming, no adrenaline rush, just a gentle slide into a warm wakefulness. He was curled on his side, the soft sheets and heavy comforter a sheer pleasure, something solid and warm at his back. He dimly recognized that it had been the soothing touch of fingers brushing across his forehead that had awakened him. He opened his eyes and met Mulder's questioning gaze from across the pillow.

"Alex?"

"Skinner's idea," he whispered back. He tipped his head slightly, mutely asking for that soothing touch again. Mulder's fingers brushed through his hair again and he sighed in pleasure. "When was the last time anyone touched me with kindness?" he thought and was appalled when his eyes filled.

"Alex?" Mulder asked, whisper deep with concern. There was no way Krycek could explain what was going on in his head; fear, gratitude, loneliness, longing, affection, despair. He could only slide a few inches forward and kiss Fox Mulder. Gently, sweetly, the way he had always wanted to kiss him. Well, *one* of the ways he had wanted to kiss him.

After a startled moment, Mulder kissed him back, long fingers threaded through his too- long hair, curving gently around his skull. He wished he could pull Mulder closer to him, but he was lying on his arm. So he settled for licking and nibbling at that tender bottom lip until that dark, sweet mouth opened for him. Lost in the taste, the feel of Fox Mulder's kiss, Krycek never even noticed the shifting weight behind him. He never felt the bed dip as Skinner leaned up on one arm and took in what was happening beside him.

The first hint Krycek had that Skinner wasn't safely asleep and oblivious was the large hand that closed over his left shoulder. A slight tightening of those fingers, then he was pushed onto his back. Mind blank, he could only stare into the shadowed face above him.

"Walter..." Mulder started to say miserably.

"Shut up," Skinner snarled, then leaned across Krycek to kiss his lover fiercely.

Krycek wasn't certain whether he was gasping due to fear or the mass of man that was pinning him to the mattress. Or was it the sheer hunger that he saw above him?

Skinner broke their clinch and leaned back. Mulder's eyes were dazed and his mouth swollen. Smiling grimly at the evidence of his skill, Skinner turned his attention to the smaller man still partially pinned beneath him.

"I told you this was a dangerous place, Krycek. But you just had to push, didn't you?"

Krycek gasped, trying to draw breath to deny or defend himself. His ribs ached where Skinner pressed against him. The voice growling in his ear shivered through him and he couldn't even bring up his arm to defend himself. 'Great,' he thought, 'one stolen kiss is going to do what years of lying, double-dealing and murder couldn't - I'm going to die.' He closed his eyes in sheer irritation at himself. The feel of Skinner's mouth covering his own shocked them open again.

This was a kiss of domination; Skinner was not brutal, but he was implacable. Alex never had a chance of resisting. Large hands came up to hold his head still and Skinner's tongue forced it way past his still stuttering lips. The sweet taste of Mulder's mouth was burnt up in the sheer power of Skinner's kiss. Without warning, all of Krycek's defenses went down; he found himself clutching hard at the muscled arms that held him pinned and moaning with need. Burning -he was burning up and it felt so good after the days of numbness, the months and years of cool detachment.

Skinner pulled away suddenly and he whimpered, not caring how needy it sounded.

"Damn! I forgot about your ribs."

"The hell with my ribs!" Krycek groaned and tried to pull Skinner's head back down. The larger man resisted, catching hold of Krycek's wrist and pressing it back down onto the bed.

"No, Alex. We're not going to let you hurt yourself and we're not going to do it for you."

Skinner ran his hand down Mulder's arm until he came to the hand; squeezing it once in reassurance, he placed Mulder's hand on Krycek's. Even as Mulder looked at his lover in complete bewilderment, his fingers laced with those of his former partner. The hand in his trembled; Mulder turned his attention to Alex, lying there on the knife-edge. This time, he licked and nibbled until he was allowed inside that mobile mouth.

Alex Krycek tasted of the sweet smoke of a driftwood fire; all the colors of need sparkled in his hungry kiss. Mulder drank him in, trying to ignore the sheer relief that twined throughout his growing desire. Finally, he had this man in his bed; perhaps he could uproot him from the dark places in his soul now.

He felt Krycek stiffen beneath him, body going rigid. When he looked up, he saw Walter running his hand gently up and down the left side of Krycek's body. He watched in fascination as that large brown hand skimmed up Krycek's smooth chest, over the strapping tape, gliding up the strong column of his throat to slide down the shoulder and down the ruined arm to brush across the scar tissue before reversing its direction and beginning the circuit again.

Krycek's eyes were fixed desperately on Skinner's face. "Don't," he whispered, moving restlessly between them.

"Shh," Skinner said and repeated the caress with the barest brush of his fingertips. Mulder found his hand mirroring Skinner's touch; as his lover's hand skimmed up the left side of Krycek's heaving chest, his glided up the right side. Again and again, they mapped out twin routes across his torso. Krycek's breath shuddered out as broad blunt fingers and long cool fingers circled his flat nipples. His skin was smooth and beautiful and it shimmered in the pale moonlight. Then he went rigid again and Mulder looked up from his fascinated stare.

Skinner was nuzzling the point of Alex's shoulder, gentle kisses and licks, small bites that raised gooseflesh. And he was sliding lower, always coming closer to that ruined flesh, the ugly truncation of Alex Krycek's beautiful, abused body. Skinner's big hand was rubbing in comforting, restraining circles on Krycek's belly.

Krycek's moaning became more desperate than aroused. Mulder put a hand on Skinner's jaw and gently pulled his head up. Their eyes met. The calculating, cruel light of seduction that Mulder saw there took him aback.

"Go easy on him, Walter," he whispered and watched as that cold light went out and the man he knew and loved returned. Skinner kissed Krycek's panting mouth gently, apologetically, soothing him with fingers stroking through his hair, caressing his face.

Reassured, Mulder let his hands slip down Krycek' torso, delighting in the silken smoothness beneath his fingers. The occasional ridge of a scar was no deterrent; it only emphasized the sleek skin beneath his hands. His hands caught on the sharp hipbones, thumbs slipping beneath the loose flannel boxers he had lent Krycek for sleepwear. The hard rise of Krycek's cock was visible beneath the cloth. Krycek's hand fumbled then seized on Mulder's thigh, stroking and squeezing with a tactile entreaty that Mulder couldn't deny.

He slowly slid the boxer shorts down Krycek's hips, easing them over the jut of his straining cock, then away. Krycek shimmied, working them down his own legs and kicking them away. His energetic squirms had caught Skinner's attention and the dark-eyed man leaned up to survey the length of Krycek's body laid out in silver between them. He and Mulder looked into each other's eyes and grinned in pure animal appetite.

"Jesus, you're beautiful, Alex," one of them whispered, then their hands began caressing him from shoulder to thigh.

Those hands were burning him, skimming over him, never touching where he needed them. Mouths devoured him, tearing at his rational cool persona, leaving him naked and alone at the center. Ah, this was cruelty and he couldn't, wouldn't lift a hand to stop it. Let Mulder have his pound of flesh; he was owed. Skinner - he ran his hand over the raised scars on the big man's abdomen. Once he had beaten and kicked Skinner, aiming for those scars, those points of vulnerability. He owed Skinner, too; let him take what he wanted. He had no more use for himself.

He was gently turned, first to his side, then to his stomach. A large hand cushioned and braced his cracked ribs and he was distantly grateful that no minor aches would be allowed to distract him from the storm of sensations. Then those hands and mouths were back, caressing and stroking. Mulder's mouth, he recognized it now, was nipping across his shoulders, tongue soothing the welts he was leaving. Alex's back arched as Skinner's teeth counted coup down his spine, the hot breath of that mouth sending his own sweat trickling down his sides.

His hand fumbled out, searching for something to anchor himself to. All he found was Skinner's leg, muscles like iron beneath his flexing fingers. He slid his hand up and down, not caressing but exploring the solidity, the sparse hair, the stolid reality of him. Alex knew now that, if he were ever struck blind, he would always be able to identify this man in this way. He almost grinned at the absurd picture of himself as a street beggar, running blind fingers up and down a multitude of legs until he found ... the fantasy blew away with a gasp. A hot tongue was running up and down the crack of his ass. The sharpness of teeth along the curve of his buttock made all of his muscles clench.

The leg under his hand suddenly slid away as Skinner moved down the bed. His legs were pushed apart and he was even more vulnerable, waiting. The scrape of night beard along the inside of his thighs made Alex gasp and throw up his head. His face was immediately seized by Mulder and he was dissolving in the laser focus of Mulder's kiss, fist knotting in the sheet. The shocking first touch of Skinner's tongue to his asshole almost caused him to convulse, pulling painfully on his ribs. Mulder threw a leg across him and Skinner's large hands held his hips down, elbows locking his thighs open, leaving him exposed.

Mulder recaptured his head and pressed a gentle kiss onto his mouth just as Skinner's tongue began to gently lap at him again. He moaned and began trembling. Mulder nuzzled his way across Alex's cheek to his left ear and he began lightly tonguing it, unknowingly mimicking his lover's motions. Drowning in the sensations, Alex could no longer tell them apart. The two men were connected somehow, using his body to communicate, telling each other the things they could never say aloud. Skinner's tongue pierced him and he could only moan. Mulder's hand reached above and across him and he threaded his fingers through Alex's, allowing him to grip as hard as he needed. His lips moved against Alex's temple, whispering and slick with sweat. The words were kind and gentle and impossible t o hear as Alex writhed and moaned.

A cool, slick finger entered him and he went rigid. Neither man moved until he slowly relaxed. Then Skinner resumed slowly stroking gel into him and Mulder kept caressing and kissing him. His cock was digging into the mattress and it hurt but he felt no urgency about relieving the pain. He felt a dim trust that his two tormentors would strip away that pain, too, as they had inflicted and taken away every other sensation.

Then Skinner slid back up along Alex's trembling length and rumbled, "Who do you want, Krycek?"

It took a few moments for the meaning of the soft words to penetrate. Was this a trick question? Two hands stroked up and down his back, waiting for his answer.

"Mulder," he gasped. "Please..."

"Ok, Alex. Hang on..." Mulder sounded breathless. There was the sound of a drawer being fumbled open, then a tearing noise, which he vaguely identified as a condom being unwrapped. Careful Skinner, he thought and wanted to smile but couldn't remember how. Bodies shifted around him and he spread his legs wider, hoping for a solid weight to settle on his back and anchor him within his body.

"Mulder - wait. His ribs can't take it like that." A warm, implacable hand sliding under his right shoulder, pushing him up onto his left side. He whimpered in protest and Skinner's hand came up to cup his face, a broad thumb against his complaining lips.

"I told you, Alex, we won't hurt you, whether you want us to or not."

Bastard, thought Krycek, without heat. You should have just shot me -it would have been kinder. Look at me, begging for you to touch me again, praying that Mulder will slide into me and never leave. Finally knowing just how big the dark and empty spaces are; and nothing to fill them but the crumbs you two have thrown me from your table. You should have just shot me.

Then Mulder was spooned up behind him, a long thigh thrust between his own and a hard length forcing its way into him. He was filled with Mulder's heat and strength and he was still so empty...

"Skinner," he rasped, hand slipping down to the man's hip, pulling him up. Skinner silently slid up until Alex could pillow his head on one hard thigh. His eyes slid up until he met Skinner's gaze. Then Skinner nodded and Alex dropped his attention to the heavy, purple cock that waited for him. Sliding it into his mouth was a simple pleasure, uncomplicated in the sea of sensations in which he was drowning. Alex barely had time to register the salt-bitter musk and solid silk of him before he felt Mulder slide all the way home and lightly brush his prostate. It took all his training to neither cry out nor bite down as flashes of light crossed his vision. One of Skinner's hands came down to clasp the side of his head, fingers threading into the dark hair.

"Alex," Mulder whispered and began to move gently within him. Skinner stayed stock still, so Alex let Mulder's movements rock him slightly up and down Skinner's length. He fondled the heavy balls that were already drawn up tight against his body, then he slipped his hand up to trace the scars left by shrapnel and gunshot. The hard muscles under his fingers trembled slightly and he knew the big man was close, so close.

Mulder was moving faster now, fingers digging into Krycek's hip, and it was good, so good. There were no more empty spaces within him. He was anchored and warm, burning and filled. He wanted nothing more. Then Mulder's hand slipped down to stroke his cock and the world disappeared in a sheet of flame. He would have cried out if Skinner hadn't been filling his throat, his come pumping out hot and silent, like his own. A few more strokes and Mulder cried out and went rigid within him, teeth scraping against Krycek's shoulder.

He didn't know how long they all lay there, sweat turning icy on their skins, slowly slipping away from one another. His head was still pillowed on Skinner's thigh, Skinner's hand rhythmically stroking his hair. Skinner himself was slumped against the headboard. Mulder had rolled onto his back behind him, but his hand was also patting Krycek's hair, occasionally tangling with Skinner's.

After making one or two abortive tries, Skinner slid Alex's head away and clambered to his feet. A little unsteady, he made it to the bathroom and wrung out a couple of washcloths in warm water. Then he filled a glass with cool water, grabbed a towel and staggered back into the bedroom. He tended to Mulder first, disposing of the condom and wiping him down, then giving him the dry towel. Mulder smiled his thanks and touched his hand.

Krycek was still lying where he'd left him and Skinner wondered if the man had passed out. He gently wiped away the extra gel and his own semen, then gently pushed him onto his back and reached for the towel Mulder passed him. He ran the towel lightly across the pale skin and was concerned to see a fine tremor. Krycek was shivering - it wouldn't do to have him get chilled. Skinner looked up to tell him to slide under the covers; the man was crying. Tears were cutting silvery streaks into the hair at his temples. Strangest of all was his total lack of expression. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling with tears pouring down. Skinner tapped Mulder and made him take his arm from over his eyes before silently pointing to Krycek.

Post-coital haze was blown away from Mulder's expression in an instant. He sat up and tapped Krycek on the shoulder.

"Alex?"

"What?" Krycek asked in a perfectly controlled, normal voice.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh yeah, Mulder, I'm fine. It was great. Thanks." Chilling, those words, so calm and clipped, and the tears still sheeting down, unnoted.

"Then why are you crying, Krycek?" Skinner finally asked.

The assassin's eyebrow's knit in a puzzled frown. "What are you talking about?"

Skinner drew one finger across one of Krycek's tear-stained cheeks and held it up, glinting in the moonlight.

"Mulder?" Krycek looked to Mulder automatically, confusion and fear seeking answers.

"Let's get you warm, Alex. We'll worry about it later, all right?"

And stranger still, Krycek allowing himself to be tucked under the comforter, passive as a small child, those silent tears still flowing. Mulder brought Krycek's head down to rest on his own shoulder. Skinner slid back into bed behind Krycek and pressed up against the shivering back. Krycek gave a small sigh of animal contentment as he burrowed into the warmth on either side of him but didn't speak again.

Mulder met Skinner's concerned gaze with a small shrug and a raised eyebrow. He had no idea what was going on either but didn't seem unduly worried. So Skinner merely mouthed the words "Love you," to Mulder and settled down to let his exhaustion take him, one hand on Krycek's bony hip.

Krycek, lying there between them, wondered how he would die now. Until this night, he had always assumed that it would involve a bullet - perhaps a lucky shot or a careless move on his part and he would have found his instant retirement plan. He regretted it. Before this night, at least, he would have remained himself as he died.

Now, between them, Mulder and Skinner had completely annihilated anything he had been used to calling 'Alex Krycek'. What was left? The empty spaces inside seemed so much larger now. What was left?

* * * * *

EXEMPLUM

The light streaming in through the curtains roused Mulder more or less abruptly. He shook his head, hoping to clear cobwebs, and tried focusing his eyes. There was Alex...and Walter...and...oh, shit. Either he was recalling one hell of a dream or the three of them had...coffee. That was it; he needed coffee. He slid out of bed carefully, trying not to wake either of the other two men, and fumbled for his robe. He grabbed his reading glasses as well; maybe the paper was outside. If it were, he could try waking up without having to do any of his own thinking.

Too bad if Krycek didn't like his coffee-making skills; they served him quite well enough, and Walter, if he didn't like Mulder's coffee, was too kind to complain. Alex, on the other hand, could reasonably be counted on to bitch at anything Mulder did. In some perverse way, it was one of the Rat's more endearing habits. The coffee was smelling great, anyway; why didn't someone market coffee aftershave? He poured out a mug of the coffee, dragged it and himself to the kitchen table, and sat down for the morning pet onslaught.

Mulder heard footsteps. He looked up from his coffee and saw Walter, also robed, coming into the kitchen to Casey's delight. "You're up early," he observed. "The coffee smells wonderful." He scrounged in the cupboard for a mug. "Krycek is still dead to the world. He'll probably be out for a few more hours."

"Walter... can we talk?"

Skinner seated himself across from Mulder. "Uh, oh. What's the matter?"

"Last night."

"Oh." A pause. "What about it?" casually asked over the coffee mug.

"Did I have a really wild dream, Walter, or did we... uh..."

"Did we both wind up fucking Alex Krycek senseless? As I recall, yes. At least, I was doing something like that. I'm fairly certain you were, too." He sipped at the coffee. "Now that we've settled that - breakfast?"

"Walter, we haven't settled anything. I mean, my God, we were doing Alex. Both of us. In our bed."

"That about sums it up." Studied casualness. "You didn't enjoy it?"

Mulder looked scandalized. "Walter! I hardly think that's relevant!"

"On the contrary. It's rather important. Are you telling me that you didn't enjoy it?"

"I'd be more afraid to tell you that I did."

"Are you telling me that isn't what you wanted?" Mulder hadn't heard Skinner's voice in that neutral a tone for nearly four years. It was the voice he had used at the Bureau prior to his "now you're going to die" pronouncements to incorrigible agents, of whom Mulder had been chief annoyance.

"What?"

"Mulder, if that's not what you wanted, then why the hell is Alex here?" Walter's jaw was firmly clenched. Lockjaw was bad news; it was Skinner's traditional indication that you had your choice of the swift sword of death or slow torture. "Come on, Mulder. Ever since you two began working as partners, it was pretty obvious. You two used to look at each other like two starving dogs that found a steak. I figured for a while it was pointless even thinking about you - you were completely wrapped up in Krycek."

"Look... Walter... that may have been true, but - until last night - I mean, I never actually... I wouldn't dream..."

"You *were* dreaming about it, Mulder. That seems to be part of what got things started."

Mulder stood up, then walked over to the kitchen window. He stared out at some seagulls flying around a dune. "I love you, Walter. More than anything."

"I know. I love you, too. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Mulder leaned down, elbows on the sill, watching the gulls. "Then what was last night about?"

Skinner rose, met Mulder at the window, and reached around Mulder from behind. "Last night? Last night was about... maybe everything, maybe nothing. Us, Alex, none of the above. You had two people who are in love with each other in bed with someone who's sex on two legs and has a thing for one of us. You've got a thing for him yourself. You just said so. I can't blame you. Alex Krycek can arouse anyone who isn't comatose. The universe didn't change, Mulder. You've just gotten a better look at what's in it."

"The only reason I went after Alex is that I owed him, you know. He found Sam for me. He didn't have to do that. He busted the black-lunged bastard for us. Hell, if he hadn't swiped that Russian vaccine and the Consortium hadn't gotten it from him, Scully would be dead. I had to do it for him, Walter. The sex had nothing to do with it."

"Maybe it didn't for you... but it might have for him. You wanted it anyway, if you're willing to be honest about it."

"Speaking of being honest, how do you feel about it? Really?"

Skinner relaxed his grip around his lover. "Truth? It was something I'd never expected I'd do. But - I enjoyed it. I thought I would be jealous of the two of you, but I wasn't. I have to admit it was kind of a turn-on."

"Really?" Mulder wriggled around in Skinner's arms to face him. "Me too, big guy."

"Would you do it again?" Skinner asked.

"Alex? Or both of you?"

"Your call."

"Hmmm... Alex is a nice warmup, I admit... but I passed him up for years before I made that play for you at that training seminar in St. Louis. Definitely both of you."

"Good answer." Soothed in a deep part of himself, Skinner slid a hand into Mulder's hair and drew Mulder in for a kiss. Breakfast could handle a short delay.

* * * * *

JEREMIAD

It was in the later part of the afternoon that Alex Krycek awoke. He looked around. An unfamiliar bed, not the one he'd been using lately. A pile of blankets and a heavy comforter. Then the events of the previous night fell back into place. Mulder's room. He was in Mulder's and Skinner's bed. Someone had left him a pair of sweatpants and a Boston University sweatshirt at the foot of the bed along with clean towels. Maid service? Hell. What was next - fill out your breakfast order? Breakfast... Krycek looked at the clock. Four o'clock. Showering and shaving was probably in order, then There was probably coffee downstairs; at this point of the day, that would do. He grabbed the towel and headed to the bathroom to shower. The other rooms seemed unoccupied; the others both had to be downstairs or in their workshops.

He ran the water in the shower as hot as he could take it. The day was cold and damp; there was a chill in the house. A second chill ran through him, deep into his bones. The first chill was a chill from the weather; the latter one, it seemed, was the chill from recalling the night before. What had happened?

Objectively, the answer was easy. He'd been in bed with two other men, had had sex with them. Not a common occurrence in his life, but not one that he had never experienced before. He'd had sex before with men whom he'd expected to rough him up or kill him as part of the deal. But those recollections had nothing to do with last night. Nothing at all to do with his finally winding up in bed with the one man he'd come as close to loving as he had anyone, only to be there with Mulder's lover as well. Nothing at all to do with realizing that while he'd spent years thinking about what he'd like to do with Mulder, what he'd like to tell Mulder given the chance, Mulder had not only not been thinking of Alex Krycek, but had settled into apparently blissful domesticity with one of the main remaining carriers of a grudge against him.

And nothing had prepared him, nothing could have prepared him, for his own discovery of at least part of what Mulder saw in Walter Skinner. He had been aware of Skinner's strength from the day it had taken three of them to beat Skinner and to get the digital tape from him at the hospital. But he had never seen Skinner's more normal use of his strength as restrained power being reined and held in check, not before last night. He had not been prepared in the least for Skinner's gentleness, his concern for as well as his clear interest in the one man he should really be trying to kill radiating throughout the room. What the hell was up with Skinner?

As the stinging water hit Alex full force in the face, both anger and tears began welling up inside him, however. He had been crying last night without understanding why, had chalked it up to its having been years since prolonged physical contact with another man had been for anything other than business on one side or the other, or for at least attempting to kill someone. In the cold light of day, he was no longer so sure that this was the only contributing factor. After all, Skinner had dragged him to the bed; why, if it hadn't been for someone's personal amusement? He hadn't as much as been asked, just dragged into their bed, and then, just as he was trying to sort through his feelings about Mulder, wham, it had happened.

He supposed he shouldn't be this irate. Hell, he'd been used before, and far worse. Maybe he should just accept that this was Skinner's idea of rent payment. Krycek toweled himself down and dressed hurriedly to avoid a chill. Mulder and Skinner had goddamn fucking everything, didn't they? Skinner's retirement salary. Mulder's father's estate. Mulder's book deals and the campus lecture tours. A house and land on the beach, straight down the road from Provincetown, two cars, the proverbial dog and cat, artwork on the walls. What was left - picking him up as their house boy? Or was he supposed to be the third pet - the dog, the cat, and the rat?

Bending over to get his borrowed sneakers on hurt his ribs. He'd had to leave the laces tied in order to get them on himself without using his prosthetic arm, One of these days he'd have to switch to Velcro fasteners, decidedly uncool but easier to handle with one arm. It galled him to acknowledge that, even in better health, some things were virtually impossible for him to do anymore. It was hard to admit that age, the lack of an arm, and the burnout of living on the edge were catching up with him as he neared forty. Maybe it was worth resigning himself to playing house boy, maid-of-all-work, and fuck toy for Skinner and Mulder to reduce his physical and psychic wear and tear. Maybe, but it sounded like a lousy deal.

Heading down the stairs, Krycek noticed two things in the living room -flickering and voices. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and someone was talking softly. One voice, speaking in a cadenced fashion. As Krycek stepped into the doorway, he was able to take in the whole scene: Mulder lying on the couch, reading poetry aloud from a book balanced on his chest; Skinner propped against the couch, Mulder's arm draping down across his chest, his head resting against Mulder's side, eyes staring into the fire. One of Skinner's legs stretched under the table; the other was drawn up, his arms around it. The cat lay curled on Mulder's stomach, the dog was on the hearth rug. The coffee pot sat on the table, an open box of Oreos beside it. Alex had the stray thought that if it got any more domestic, he would be ill.

"You two look like a gay Currier & Ives print," he snarled.

Mulder looked over the top of his reading glasses at Krycek, grinned, said, "Smile when you say that," and nodded for him to come in. Skinner merely said, "About time you got up," then poured a mug of coffee and held it out to him. Alex found that he was unable to do anything but cross the room and ease down in the space Skinner offered him, taking the cup of coffee and sipping gratefully.

"To continue..." Mulder said, and traced his finger down the page until he found his place again. Mulder's voice wrapped around him and he allowed the words to cocoon him. After a time, they began to make sense.
    
    
    "/In a world of possessions, People will take balls,
    Balls will always be lost, little boy,
    And no one buys a ball back.  Money is external.
    He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
    the epistemology of loss.../"
    

As the meaning began to scrape through, Krycek turned his mind away from the disturbingly familiar images behind the words. Mulder's voice was low and gentle as it delivered the harsh truths that Krycek had learned so many years ago.

He concentrated instead on the warmth around him -- the heat thrown by the fire, the solid warmth of Skinner's shoulder against his own, the knowledge that Mulder was mere inches behind him. Krycek found himself leaning partly against the couch, partly against Skinner. Mulder's arm was still down around Skinner's neck and shoulder, but it had to be visible to Mulder that Skinner had quit hugging his knee and was now resting his own arm along Krycek's shoulders. When had that happened? The heavy warmth was as comforting as it was disturbing. He could feel his life-saving paranoia kicking into high gear when Skinner's fingers began rubbing in small circles at the base of his skull.

Apparently Mulder wasn't disturbed by watching his lover running his fingers along the neck of the FBI's least favorite ex-agent, though Krycek did not feel in the least reassured by the fact. What was this supposed to be about? You don't usually fondle the house guests, Krycek figured, but neither do you waste culture on the rent boys.

Mulder's voice spiraled to a close. He folded down a corner of the page he had read and handed the book to Skinner. With a near-certainty that he was hallucinating, Alex Krycek watched the former AD page through the book one-handed, then give a grunt of satisfaction and prop the book on his knees.

"What's going on here?" Krycek twisted around to look at Mulder and grimaced as his cracked ribs and sore ass protested.

"An argument about 20th century poetry," Skinner answered. "Mulder appears to have never heard of internal rhyme or meter. He prefers the stream of consciousness garbage that passes for poetry now."

"Oh," Krycek managed weakly and reached for a cookie. Maybe some food would help; sugar was supposed to be good for shock. Then Skinner's rough voice began and he had to listen. There was no comfort for him in the measured lines, the simple rhythms did not camouflage the murky truths that twisted and roiled in his memories and in the words Skinner read.
    
    
    "/I have longed to move away
    From the hissing of the spent lie
    And the old terrors' continual cry
    Growing more terrible as the day
    Goes over the hill into the deep sea.../"
    

Skinner's voice hitched for a moment, and Krycek lost the thread of the poem. He wondered what it was that Skinner remembered, which lies still gnawed and burned within him as they did within Krycek.
    
    
    "/...I have longed to move away but am afraid;
    Some life, yet unspent, might explode
    Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
    And crackling into the air leave me half-blind.../"
    

Alex Krycek sat beside his oldest enemies and drank their coffee and ate their food with his eyes burning and throat closed tight. Last night, these men had torn at him with the gentlest of touches. Today, they ripped at whatever was left of him with their words. What did they want of him? If it was revenge, this was certainly the most creative and excruciating that he had ever undergone.

Mulder had the book again. His tawny voice poured across them.
    
    
    "/Death is the dog -headed man zebra striped
    and is surrounded by silence who walks like a lion,
    who is black.  It was his voice crying come back,
    that Virginia Woolf heard.../"
    

Mulder, Krycek figured, was blissfully unaware of his misery, or else he was getting some kind of cheap thrill from it. Remembering Hong Kong, it occurred to him to wonder if Mulder were really a major sadist. Where sheer physical pummeling had failed to do him in, perhaps this literary flensing would do the trick. Shit, Mulder had more poetry. That book had to have a thousand pages, easily; what were they doing, today's 100 pages?
    
    
    "/Let the oars be idle, my love, and forget at this time
    our love like a knife between us
    defining the boundaries that we can never cross
    nor destroy as we drift into the heart of our dream,
    cutting the silence, slyly, the bitter rain in our mouths
    and the dark wound closed in behind us./"
    

Whatever the hell Mulder was reading now - it couldn't all be the same poem, could it? - was striking too close to home, Krycek thought, as he drifted out of attention again. They were definitely trying S&M by poetry. He shifted his weight slightly to avoid pressing so firmly against Skinner. There was no sign that either Mulder or Skinner objected to this, but he was hideously unnerved. There had to be a trick here. Lean the wrong way, or touch Mulder on the wrong part of his body, and get his other arm amputated. Ask to hear Mulder read Allen Ginsberg and have Skinner break the rest of his ribs. What was the wrong move they were waiting for?
    
    
    "/A basis rock-like of love & friendship
    for all this world-wide madness seems to be needed.
    Epictetus is in some ways my favorite philosopher.
    Happy men have died earlier./"
    

Shit. Low blow, Mulder. That had to be deliberate. Much more of this and he was going to have to beat someone up just to clear his head; it had always worked before, he thought, trying to shrug back into his leather-and-gunpowder persona. And deciding who to beat up wasn't terribly difficult with one of Skinner's massive arms wrapped around his shoulder. Mulder might look good with false teeth. Entirely oblivious to his impending doom, Mulder continued his recitation.
    
    
    "/I still have plans to go to Mexico this summer.
    The Olmec images!  Chichen Itza!
    D. H. Lawrence has a wild dream of it.
    Malcolm Lowry's book when it came out I taught to my precept at Princeton.
    
    "I don't entirely resign.  I may teach the Third Gospel
    this afternoon.  I haven't made up my mind.
    It seems that others have easier jobs
    & do them worse./"
    

Krycek shifted again, skittish and in pain, both physical and emotional. The disturbance, slight though it was, was this time just enough to disturb the comfort of the cat napping on Mulder's stomach. Maxie rose, turned, and resettled himself with his tail over the edge of the couch hanging directly on Krycek. Maxie twitched his tail irritably and it brushed across Krycek's face and into his mouth. Little though it was, at the moment it was more than enough for Krycek. Without thought, he grabbed Maxie unceremoniously under the gut and heaved the cat away; the animal landed on the dog with a screech. Krycek lurched to his feet and headed out to the kitchen. The door slammed.

"Oh, well," Mulder sighed. "Not everyone takes to John Berryman at a first hearing."

When Skinner turned to look at him in disbelief, he grinned, then abruptly sobered.

"You know, he's going to keep turning and biting when we least expect it."

"I know." Skinner remembered how fragile they themselves had been in the first few months as they had tried to slide into normal lives, to forget or at least learn to not automatically expect attacks of the body and spirit.

"It could take months before he's calm enough to handle the most routine stuff."

"I know." They had torn at one another, sometimes in frozen silences, sometimes in words. They had wanted to put away the weapons that had kept them alive so long -- fear, suspicion, hatred, paranoia -- they had wanted to lead normal lives so much and it was so hard. It had taken so much trust, so much borrowing of each other's strength to get to this point of peace and calm. He remembered and could see the memories in Mulder's eyes as well.

Mulder looked pleading. Skinner sighed, then nodded once, agreeing to the new circumstances without hesitation; he supposed he had brought this about himself, with his barely understood impulse to bring Krycek into their bed.

"He's going to freeze out there," Mulder said quietly.

"I know," Skinner groused, climbing to his feet. "I'm going. But he'd better not pick on my dog anymore."

"Your dog? That was MY cat he threw, Walter!"

"Your damned cat throws *himself* at Casey harder than that. Where the hell are my shoes?"

"By the door. Where you left them. See if you can get him to come back."

"Am I authorized to use force?" Skinner asked, an angelic expression on his face as he toed into his shoes.

"Don't forget the ribs, Walter. You were solicitous enough about them last night."

Skinner shrugged into a wool jacket off the hooks by the kitchen door. "Where's his gun?"

"Still locked up. I checked this morning."

"Well, that's a relief. Hey - why am *I* chasing after him? It's you he's in love with."

"He'll actually listen to you, though. Me, he'll just give me another head injury - it's kind of a tradition."

Mulder rolled to his feet in a boneless motion that Skinner had to watch. It made him seriously consider rolling Mulder right back onto that couch...but he had to go find Krycek. He closed his eyes and counted to ten silently before opening them and looking at his lover.

"This was not exactly how I'd envisioned my retirement," he confided.

Mulder smiled serenely. "I know. Go find our pet spy and bring him back. I'll make some dinner."

Casey bounded up to Skinner with an imploring look as he put his hand on the doorknob. "You have no shame, dog. A man throws a cat at you and you're ready to go lick him to death, aren't you?" Casey merely bounced and gave one sharp bark. Rolling his eyes heavenward, Skinner went out into the steel-grey afternoon, the big red dog racing down to the sand before him.

Krycek was a dark figure against the gray landscape. He was walking very fast, head down and hand in his pocket. At Skinner's hail, he walked faster. The tide was out, so there was plenty of firm, damp sand and he made good time.

"Dammit, Krycek, would you stop?!" There was no answer.

Skinner began to jog across the sand, glad that he sometimes joined Mulder on his morning runs up the beach. Casey cheerfully broke into a gallop and outstripped him quickly. The wind was cutting, damp and raw and Skinner knew it meant another storm spinning in off the north Atlantic. He was steadily gaining on Krycek but Casey was already there, bouncing and barking in circles around his strange new friend, forgiving him the cat, demanding that he play.

When he saw the dog, Krycek knew that Skinner couldn't be far behind. But when he looked over his shoulder and saw the big man within twenty paces, something in him snapped. Without reason, he took off. The angry yearning that had driven him out of the house was gone; now, he was operating on instinct alone. Someone was chasing him, so he ran. Everything in him was devoted to getting away from his pursuer. He pounded down the beach, knowing the danger was just behind. The cold air burned in his lungs, his ribs ached, he was running clumsily, he used to be able to run like the wind -- where had it gone? Running.... the surf pounding to his left, the wind cutting across him, trying to slow him down, the dog keeping up with him, and the man right behind him, shouting...

The tackle took him down hard. He hit the sand facedown and saw stars. His ribs were screaming and he was gasping, trying hard to breathe and failing miserably. Skinner was half-sprawled across his back, his breath rasping across the back of Krycek's neck. He made a noise low in his throat, like a growl, and Krycek actually expected to feel fangs sinking into his unprotected spine. The weight shifted and he was flung onto his back, Skinner straddling his hips, pinning him to the cold sand.

He flung his arm up to protect his face, flinching, waiting to ride out the first blows until he could slip a shot in under the attack. When none fell, Krycek cautiously lowered his arm. Casey chose that moment to bounce up and begin happily washing Krycek's sandy face. Skinner pushed the dog away and said, "Casey. Sit." The words were quiet but the tone impossible to ignore. The setter immediately sat, panting and looking adoringly at his master. Who was looking down at Krycek without even a hint of adoration in his face.

In that same quiet voice, Skinner said, "Why are you running, Krycek?"

It was impossible not to answer that voice as honestly as he could. "I don't know. I just couldn't be there with you two, not like that."

Skinner looked confused. "Like what?"

Krycek could only shake his head and pant. He had no more notion of his own motivations than Skinner, but they weren't going to tease him like that. It was cruelty, pure and simple, like dangling poisoned meat in front of a starving wolf.

"Look - I don't mind being your rent-boy, if that's what I need to do, but let's not pretend it's anything more than that."

The thunder rolled in across Skinner's face and Krycek tensed again, waiting for the blow that he could see rippling in the other man's chest and arms. Skinner reached down and took hold of Krycek's shoulders. He shook Krycek hard, once, bouncing his head on the sand.

"Don't *ever* say that again."

Walter Skinner's voice sounded like granite cracking in the cold and Krycek was suddenly convinced that he had never been closer to death. Casey whined, eyes locked on his master's face. The wind had freshened and was coming straight in off the water. Skinner realized that his hands were aching with the cold, and that, beneath them, Alex Krycek was trembling. Slowly, carefully, Skinner unlocked his death grip on Krycek's shoulders. He clambered off the other man and stood up stiffly. He looked down at Krycek, dark eyes unreadable and face expressionless. Then he held out a hand to the man sprawled in the sand at his feet. After a moment, Krycek took it and was hauled upright. The two men brushed sand from their clothes, not looking at one another. Skinner stripped off his coat and handed it to Krycek.

"Put it on," he ordered.

"Skinner," Alex began, shoving it back at him. Skinner's chest was no more unyielding then his expression.

"Put it on, Alex," he grated, and watched until his order was obeyed. Then he turned and started back down the beach toward the house, now a pool of golden light in the rapidly descending gloom of an autumn afternoon. There was nothing left for Krycek and Casey to do but follow.

* * * * *

AGON

Fox Mulder whistled to himself as he chopped vegetables. It was an atonal whistle, and anyone overhearing it would have wondered if the whistler were tone deaf or if he were terribly fond of experimental music. It was supposed to be an old Kinks number, but no one would have believed it had they heard. He looked down at his hands. "Damn beets. Should've used a food processor."

At that moment, Casey bounded to the door, barking joyously. Mulder wiped his hands and opened the door as Casey led Skinner and Krycek into the kitchen. Maxie, who had been observing dinner preparations from his vantage point on the kitchen table, darted off to another room.

Skinner sniffed. "I see beets. What have you got going - red flannel hash?"

"Actually, yeah." Mulder grinned. "Half of the beets are going into the hash. The other half are going into the borscht." Skinner smiled; Krycek's jaw dropped. "What's the matter, Alex? You don't like borscht?"

"I love borscht. What the fuck are you doing making borscht? Americans don't eat borscht."

"I hung out with a radical crowd at Oxford. Nigel used to do borscht dinners and read Trotsky. It was as close as I got to collegiate rebellion. The politics only lasted a term but I hung around for the food. I stole Nig's recipe before I came back."

"And you passed an FBI background check?"

"So did you," Mulder reminded him. "Gentlemen, the cook is occupied. I suggest that one of you bring him a drink or you'll never see dinner." Skinner headed for the liquor as Krycek settled into a kitchen chair, stripping off Skinner's coat.

"Looks like another storm," Krycek told Mulder, who was scrounging a cabinet looking for dill.

"I thought the storm already hit," Mulder observed. "Or what was that little scene about?"

"Why did you bring me up here?" Krycek asked.

Mulder turned to the counter, poured hot coffee for Krycek, and placed the mug on the table. "Good question, isn't it? You'd rather have let the O'Keefe boys finish the job? I think you like being alive a little too much for that. Maybe I think you ought to stay in one piece." He returned to his chopping.

"What's it to you, Mulder?" Alex Krycek's gaze was locked on the table, his fingers white as they gripped his mug.

Mulder put his chef's knife down on the cutting board and accepted a double Scotch from Skinner. Seeing Skinner and another glass inching towards the living room and a football game on television, Mulder nodded towards Skinner, he said,

"No; stick around. Let's get it all out in the open." He took a long pull from the tumbler and set it on the table as Skinner seated himself. "I love you. For a reasonably intelligent guy, Alex, you're as big a moron as I am. Walter had to bash me over the head, metaphorically speaking, to figure it out myself. Think about it."

Krycek looked at Mulder dubiously, but with what appeared to be growing awareness. He went back to his coffee, apparently attempting to affect nonchalance, then glanced at Skinner out of the corner of his eye. Skinner didn't look furious... he didn't look ecstatic, but at least he didn't seem to be threatening anyone's continued existence at the moment.

Mulder's gaze, fixed on Krycek, could have thawed the cold out of Krycek's body more effectively than Skinner's coat had. Skinner seemed to be aware of it, but wasn't reacting. "Okay, Mulder, but what the hell do you want from me?"

"Your mistake, Krycek," Skinner interjected, expression calm, despite the twitch in his jaw, "is thinking that anyone wants anything from you. This may be hard for you to follow, but not everyone in the world is just out for what they can get from people. I realize that this is an unfamiliar concept for you, but try to bear with it."

"Come off it. I know damn well what you wanted last night. I've played rent boy before. Don't sugarcoat it."

Mulder coughed deliberately. "Uh, Alex - I've got a knife and I know how to use it."

Krycek's lip curled. Did they think he was stupid? Or just naive? Mulder was looking at him like he was a prime rib dinner, but suggesting he didn't want a repeat of the previous night's games? Preposterous. Of course they wanted it.

"Look. You bring me here, do the medical bit, and tell me all I'm supposed to do is hang out. Come off it. Everybody wants something from other people. Basic fact of life. So I found out what you two want last night." He shrugged. "No big deal; I've traded it before. I don't mind it that much; just don't lie to me about it."

Skinner drained his glass. Standing up, his face increasingly red, he stepped closer to Krycek, then, suddenly, reached out and slapped him. Alex reeled from the blow, into the back of the kitchen chair and then slightly forward as he steadied himself.

"Good God, Krycek, you're the most infuriating human being on the face of the planet! If you can't handle the concept that anyone might just give a shit about you, you can be that way, for all I care. But I'll be goddamned if I'm going to sit here and listen to you tell me - tell us - that you think last night was the rent coming due on your hotel privileges."

"I'm going to watch the game. Call me when dinner's ready." Skinner turned on the ball of his foot and stamped out of the kitchen.

Mulder sighed and turned to the stove. "I might just remind you, Alex. For whatever reason Walter got you in bed with us - and it was the nightmares, wasn't it? - you kissed me first. Just like what - five years ago? That night in my apartment. What the fuck is your problem? You started it -- don't take it out on us."

Krycek gulped more coffee. "Look, Mulder. I'm not taking anything out on anybody right now - like I'm in any kind of shape to do it right now, anyway? I didn't think I was starting anything."

"Then what was it?"

"Hell, I don't know. I guess - I -- look, you know I'm not good with words. I can fuck up what I'm trying to say in three different languages. What I wanted to do was... try to - what? Thank you for dealing with some of my shit when I couldn't deal with it myself? I was half-asleep; I didn't know how else to show you."

"And I wasn't going to respond to it? You know damn well how I feel."

"Wrong. I knew how you might have felt five years ago. You're here now, living with Skinner; you told me how you feel about him and it's damned clear how he feels about you. I didn't realize I was still on your list."

"You are. I didn't realize it myself. By the way ... did you ever stop to consider that just maybe you deserve to be treated, let alone live, like a human being?" Mulder stirred a large kettle. "Here. You check this." He handed a spoon to Krycek, who came over to the stove with Mulder. "How is it?"

Krycek dipped the spoon into the kettle, lifting out red broth and shreds of cabbage. He tasted it gingerly. "Whoa. Hot." Then he swallowed. "Better than my mother's if you must know. My mother was a dreadful cook." He handed the spoon back to Mulder. "But you'd better have sour cream."

"In the fridge." Mulder slipped an arm around Krycek's waist and pulled him closer, sliding one hand up into Krycek's hair and moving close enough to kiss him briefly.

"What about him?" Krycek asked, dazedly nodding in the direction of the living room.

"Talk to him yourself. And try not to be a prick about it. Now, get out of here. I've got to start watching what I'm cooking."

Try not to be a prick about it? Wonderful; wasn't it Skinner who was being a prick? He started to leave when Mulder said, voice coated in ice, "Oh, and Alex? Do. Not. Fuck. With. My. Cat. Again. Ever. Got it?"

Got it. There was no doubt in his mind as to what Mulder would do to him if he ever found even one of Maxie's whiskers bent. Right - no messing with the cat. He jotted that down in his mental notebook. Mulder might care about him, but Maxie was kin.

Krycek exited the kitchen realizing that his only option other than going back outside and checking the storm front was heading into the living room and passing through that probable storm front. The outdoor option sounded the safer choice, but he didn't feel up to being taken down on the sand again.

Skinner was sprawled on the couch, watching the Patriots taking a beating. Krycek sat down in the armchair across from the couch and ventured into safe territory. "What's the score?"

"Patriots are down 21 to 10. They're getting clobbered this quarter. How's Julia Child getting along in there?" Skinner's voice was neutral; he seemed fairly well absorbed in the game.

"Fine. Hasn't chopped off any fingers, anyway. I got evicted so he could finish cooking."

"The man is a monster when he's cooking. I always thought those stories of French chefs behaving like tyrants were exaggerated until we started living together."

Krycek shifted anxiously in the chair. "Look - Walter - Mulder said something to me in the kitchen before he chased me out with the carving knife. I hate to suggest that he might actually be right about anything, you understand..."

"I know. Goes against the grain to say he's right about anything. I used to feel the same way."

"But he said that it was time I started living like a human being. I'm not used to the idea that you do something for someone without a deal. I don't get that. I haven't lived that way since I was in college. Where I come from, doing something for someone means business. Being nice to them means you're really up to something. Before last night, the last time I even had sex that wasn't either a business transaction or a quickie was... hell, I don't even remember. I can't take living on the edge anymore. I'm getting too old for it, and I'm not physically up to it. But it's all I know. I don't belong here. I don't belong with people who've gotten their lives together. I can't even imagine what it means to live in one place, use one name, pay income taxes, and have people around who would notice if anything happened to you."

Skinner sat up on the couch, focusing his attention on Krycek. "And that makes you one pretty miserable bastard, doesn't it? You have two choices, don't you? Go back to your rat hole and get killed fast so you can get put out of your misery, or join the human race. You used to be there, Krycek. You don't really forget it. It's like riding a bike."

"I wouldn't even know where to start."

"I'll show you where," Skinner told him. "Listen to me. Stand up. " Krycek unseated himself. "Face me." Krycek turned slightly. "Put your right foot in front of your left foot." Krycek complied. "Walk over here." Krycek hesitated momentarily, then did so. "Now. Listen up. Sit down here on the couch with me and watch the game. Got that?"

Alex nodded. Moving around the coffee table, he sat down beside Skinner but well over at the other side of the couch, too far for Skinner to reach him without moving. "How's that?"

"You could look less like you think I'm going to kill you, but it's a start. Killing you would just waste my time, Alex, and I'd only get Mulder mad at me, so you might as well relax."

Comforting thought, that his existence depended on Skinner not wanting to make Mulder angry. Oh yeah, time to just kick back, Alex thought bitterly, feeling a flash of intense dislike for the man sitting so casually beside him. A man who had a normal life, who knew what it was to go to sleep and wake up to the one person in the world he loved.

A commercial came on and Skinner got up and left without a word. The meaningless stream of colors and sounds flowed past him as Krycek tried to sort out what he had just been told. Both Skinner and Mulder had reacted violently to the idea that they were expecting sex in return for room and board and nursing care. Mulder had been waving a knife and Skinner had slammed him around twice today for the same suggestion. He had to admit that they were fairly convincing in their arguments - his ribs ached and there was a vicious jab of pain every time he took too deep a breath. OK - he would take that at face value for now -no rent boy gig. But he still wondered where he was expected to sleep tonight.

Then there was the other matter; Mulder loved him. Had said it out loud, almost casually, in front of his lover. Was the man trying to get him killed? In Alex's experience, those words were just another commodity. What did Mulder mean by them? Krycek knew what love was for him - inconvenient, dangerous, bitter. Time spent dreaming, regretting, lying to yourself and others, with just a few sweet flashes of light to stir the ashes into a fire to cremate another part of your soul. Somehow, he didn't think that was what it was for Mulder. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease both his ribs and the odd hollow feeling that had opened in his chest.

Skinner came back into the room with something wrapped in a piece of plaid flannel - the rag of a shirt he realized. "Here," Skinner said and knelt in front of him. "This'll help." Moving slowly, he pulled Krycek's sweatshirt up, brushed away some clinging sand, then carefully laid the heated gel pack against Krycek's abused ribs. The blessed warmth soaked through the flannel wrap and into his aching muscles and Alex's eyes closed with a sigh. He vaguely felt his sweatshirt being pulled back down, then Skinner drawing Alex's arm across as a brace to hold the gel pack in place.

"When it cools, just throw it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. Use it tonight and most of tomorrow."

Krycek opened his eyes and looked at Skinner. "Thanks."

The big man looked uncomfortable but stayed where he was. Suddenly he said, "I'm sorry about earlier. On the beach. In the kitchen."

The hollow feeling in Alex's chest was being transformed into something that felt a lot sharper. Walter Skinner was apologizing for hurting the man who had once beaten him in a stairwell, whom his lover had brought into their home, who had made love to Mulder in their bed, who had sat and blinked as he listened to Mulder declare his love. It made no sense. Alex shook his head to clear the cobwebs and Skinner closed his mouth abruptly and stood.

"It's OK. It's not like I don't deserve it."

Skinner sat down beside him again, eyes on the TV again. "No more, Alex. I offered you a truce when you came into this house and I've broken it twice. I'm sorry."

Jesus, the man was serious. As if justice wouldn't actually turn a blind eye if he and Mulder and Scully filleted him. Alex remembered that moment, deep in the night, when he had realized that he owed Skinner and Mulder and had been content to let them take whatever they wanted from him. This morning he had resented their taking it. In another dizzying turn-around, Krycek realized that Skinner, of all people, actually cared what happened to him. How odd. Skinner was worried about a man who, as of one week ago, had tried to commit suicide using the unusual combination of alcohol and the IRA fundraising arm of upstate New York. Mulder loved him enough to hunt him down and bring him here. He was safer with them than he was by himself; they seemed to want him to live. All he wanted was for the pain to stop.

The two men continued to sit side by side, eyes following the game on TV, although neither could tell Mulder the score when he called them to dinner.

* * * * *

REFRAIN

Halfway through the mostly silent meal, the telephone had rung. Mulder had groaned, then looked pointedly at Skinner, who grimaced and got up and answered it. After a few short sentences, he hung up and looked apologetically at Mulder.

"I'm sorry. It's a call out. There's a big car accident at the Bridge, so the regulars are there. In the meantime, someone's visiting sister is about to give birth up in Truro. Guess which one I get?"

"Walter Skinner, the Hester Prynne of the Outer Cape." Mulder slanted an evil grin at his lover, who was already in motion, pulling on boots and grabbing an oilskin coat with an EMT logo on it.

"Ha ha." He stopped, hand on the door. "Look, Mulder, about earlier..."

"It's fine, Walter." The words were short, but the look in his eyes was enough. Skinner smiled slightly and went out into the storm.

Mulder and Krycek continued eating. The silence was thoughtful now. Finally, Krycek broke it. "That happen a lot?"

"Often enough. More in the summer. Don't let his grumbling fool you - he loves it when he gets to deliver babies. One woman even named her kid after him."

"He likes being needed," Krycek murmured, not realizing he spoke aloud. Mulder looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. He does. And I don't get into enough trouble any more."

"Now that surprises me," Alex smiled.

"Hey! You'd be surprised how calm your life and medical history can get when you no longer have shadowy conspiracies trying to kill you and you quit the FBI. Most days, I don't even have band aid on."

"How come he's not a volunteer fireman?"

"They asked him. But you can get killed that way - and I wanted him around. So he took the EMT training instead. He's good at it."

"I can imagine." Cool, controlled Skinner. Of course he'd be good at it.

"He still has nightmares like the rest of us, Alex."

Mulder's words were too close to telepathy for Krycek's comfort. That sharp-edged feeling he'd had earlier when Skinner had been apologizing to him was back. if he had to name it, he'd call it sympathy or recognition. He now knew much more about Walter Skinner than he was comfortable with. Somehow a blow job in the night had been far more impersonal.

He helped Mulder clear the dishes and listened to him grumble that this was the way Walter always got out of doing them. As soon as Mulder heard the hitch in his breath when Alex stretched too far to grab a plate, he was sent to sit on the couch with his discarded hot pack reheated. He let himself slowly relax into the soft leather, soothed by the heat against his side and the sound of the rising wind lashing rain against the house. It was good to know himself inside, safe, out of the cold. Mulder was making homely noises in the kitchen and whistling tunelessly.

After a time, he felt the couch next to him dip as Mulder sat down. He opened his eyes sleepily and just looked at Mulder. He didn't know what the other man saw that caused his eyes to soften. But suddenly he was being pulled up against Mulder's chest. And then they were reclining and he found himself stretched out against the back of the couch, his head on Mulder's shoulder and the hot pack carefully tucked around his ribs. He sighed and curled his fingers on Mulder's chest. The TV came on and Krycek drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the television, the storm and the comforting rhythm of Fox Mulder's heart beating beneath his ear.

When Skinner came in around nine, they were still on the couch. Krycek was sleeping deeply and Mulder was watching some horrendous B-movie with the volume turned low. He smiled as Skinner dripped beside the kitchen door. "How'd it go?" he asked softly.

"Fine. It was a girl. We didn't make it to the hospital until after she was born, delivered on the side of Rt. 6. But she seemed like she was in good shape. Mother was fine," Skinner was stripping off his boots and wet socks and drying his glasses, carefully not looking at the tableau on the couch.

"Walt? I'm sorry about all this," Mulder said quietly.

"You didn't know, really. It's OK."

"No, it isn't. Not until you understand something." Mulder's eyes locked with Skinner's. "I am not leaving you. You can throw me out, but I am not leaving you."

Something heavy and primitive flared in Skinner's eyes, then he asked, "What about Krycek?"

"I don't know. But I am here, with you."

Skinner took a step into the room. "Actually, you're over there, with him." He smiled slightly, then growled, "Come here."

Mulder carefully shifted the sleeping man's head off of his shoulder and slid out from beneath him, settling him carefully onto the cushions. He flowed to his feet and crossed the room with deliberate steps. There was no hesitation as he walked into Skinner's arms and kissed him. Pulling his mouth away, he said breathlessly, "Here. With you."

Skinner growled again, wordlessly, and Mulder shivered as his mouth was caught once more. Skinner tasted of rain and the wild salt wind that screamed outside. Mulder loved it when Skinner let himself slip the leash but it happened so rarely. On the few times it did, Mulder surrendered all control happily and let himself drop into the free fall of all the dark places between them. He thought that Walter feared those shadowy places, where love is possession and hunger, as well as tenderness, but Mulder didn't fear them. He knew them to be the other side of the coin he had bargained for years ago when he had clumsily seduced his boss in a cheap hotel room in St. Louis.

"Bed," he suggested. Skinner kissed him once more before releasing him and letting Mulder take his hand. Passing the couch on the way to the stairs, Skinner's eye fell on the abandoned figure on the couch. He stopped. Generous in victory, he grabbed a heavy Hudson Bay blanket off the end of the couch and shook it out, then tucked it around Alex Krycek as he slept. Mulder watched him silently, then reached out and took his hand again, leading him upstairs, turning the lights off behind them.

* * * * *

Alex Krycek woke slowly. He tried opening his eyes, realizing gradually that he was in the living room. The last he remembered, he had been curled up with Fox Mulder, snuggling through "Attack of the Mushroom People." Looking around as consciousness crept back, Krycek realized that someone - Mulder? - had covered him and almost literally tucked him in on the couch and turned the television off. Maxie was perched censoriously over him, looking down from the top of the couch; however, Casey, who normally slept in the bedroom with Skinner and Mulder, was curled up at the other end of the couch, at his feet, which were cheerfully warm. He was surprisingly comfortable, and it occurred to him that for some reason he'd had no nightmares during the night. He wondered what time Mulder had left, not angry at having been left on the couch himself. Two on the couch all night probably would have been uncomfortable, and Skinner was almost certainly back from his rescue efforts of the night before. Yes, there was light, but it was still quite gray out; he could hear the continuing rain.

'I could be out there in this', it occurred to him. He'd spent more than one night of his life out on the streets, or out on the road, in the rain, with little more than a leather jacket and a gun, and he'd endured that same discomfort in several different countries. This morning, on the other hand, he was waking up from having fallen asleep in Fox Mulder's arms in front of a television and a fireplace, tucked in, with a dog at his feet, while some other poor slob was out there in a leather jacket freezing his ass off. All in all, there was clearly something to be said for domesticity.

Krycek grinned, realizing that he was feeling a very tiny warm spot somewhere inside. He'd curled up against Mulder last night, watching television with him after dinner. Mulder had checked him and reheated the pack he was keeping on his ribs. And without Walter Skinner anywhere in the vicinity, Mulder had repeated the same thing he'd said earlier in the day. Fox Mulder obviously didn't associate love with pain, discomfort, or inconvenience, or any of the other torments of the damned that Krycek had learned to associate with the word. If the night before had been an indication, it might be that Mulder was actually on to something.

Rising, Krycek stretched and then folded the blanket that had been covering him. Casey jumped up; Krycek waved a finger at the setter, telling him to be quiet, and let Casey out. It was time to start the coffee; whether the other two were up or not, he needed at least one mug of it himself. As he finished pouring the water, he heard Casey's return and let the dog back in. All told, he really felt quite cheerful. It might just be worth it, if he could find a tray, to walk in on Mulder and Skinner with the coffee and a wet dog.

He found a tray and stacked mugs, the coffee pot, sugar, milk and a pile of muffins on it. Maxie looked on impassively from the back of the couch. Looking once more at Casey, Krycek decided to be merciful. And prudent - he remembered that Skinner kept a pistol beside the bed. He found an old towel and dried the dog off, leaving him only with the faintest hint of wet dog odor, which even the best-groomed dog can't escape. He picked up the tray and made an inviting noise at the dog, who preceded him happily up the staircase.

Mulder and Skinner had left the door to their room open. Casey swept through it and launched himself cheerfully into the mound of quilt in the center of the bed. A heartfelt moan and an aggrieved shout of "Dog!" were ample repayment for a night spent alone on the couch.

Alex came into the room less precipitously and had time to note the scattered clothes on the floor, the half-used tube of lube on the floor, the untucked sheets, and the elusive scent of sex that still hung in the air. He inhaled like a connoisseur and grinned at the two men being enthusiastically licked by the big red dog.

Skinner sat up and grabbed the dog by the head, roughly ruffling his ears and crooning nonsense at it, getting him to calm down. It was obvious that Casey loved it, from the fatuously adoring expression he fixed on his master's face.

Mulder sat up in bed and ran his hands through his hair before fixing his blurry gaze on Krycek in the doorway. Their eyes met and something complicated and wordless passed between them; Krycek didn't know what, but it fanned that small warm spot he had discovered inside him and he found himself smiling. Mulder smiled back slowly, then said in a false upper crust accent, "Ramon, we're ready for breakfast."

Skinner's head came up sharply at that and he stared at Krycek for a moment before a small grin broke out on his face, too. "Now you're a houseboy?" and he gently shoved the dog off the bed and reached out for the tray.

Krycek handed it to him, then lounged across the foot of the bed as he watched Walter Skinner pouring three cups of coffee. At least, he tried to lounge. It came out as more of a startled gasp as his damned ribs acted up again. He shifted gingerly, trying to find a position that didn't make him want to scream.

"Here," Skinner handed him a cup of coffee and Mulder handed him some tablets. He swallowed the Tylenol gratefully, swilling it down with coffee. He watched Mulder take a dose , then hand the bottle to Skinner, whose mouth quirked as he shook two tablets out for himself. When Mulder leaned back against the headboard, Krycek saw the livid bitemark on his shoulder and couldn't help the undignified snerk sound that escaped around the rim of his coffee cup. It must have been one seriously good bout of make-up sex, he decided. He briefly wondered what had gotten into him - cheerfulness and good humor were not his standard morning mood.

He took a muffin off the tray and schooled his expression into a pleasantly null facade. Maxie came wandering down the bed to sniff at his fingers.

"So - how did you sleep?" he asked.

When he looked up again, the other two men were looking at him with complete disbelief on their faces. Mulder was looking faintly outraged, in fact. "I'm practicing social niceties."

"You're lying in the wreck of our bed, smirking like a pimp, drinking my coffee and...stop feeding muffins to the cat! - and you call it 'social niceties'?"

"Well, what would you call it?" Alex Krycek was enjoying himself enormously, aching ribs aside.

"There are several perfectly good French words for it, Mulder, and a few in English as well. Would you like me to elaborate?" Walter Skinner asked, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Alex.

Mulder knew when he was beaten. He drank his coffee in silence for a few minutes, then said, "You know, this is not what *I* expected from your retirement, Walt."

Skinner's mouth quirked and he looked at Krycek for a long moment, then said, "I know."

* * * * *

ELLIPSIS

Krycek's ribs were beginning to show improvement, Skinner declared as the next week went by. Alex acknowledged as much; he was certainly in far less pain than he had been. He was also starting to show signs of filling out again; the weight was creeping back on. His skin, where it wasn't darkened by bruising, had regained a healthy glow and his hair was becoming glossy again.

Trying to get into some semblance of shape, Alex asked to join Mulder on his morning run. He was slow, but it was a start. Mulder kept cautioning the younger man not to overtax himself. Much of the time, they jogged slowly for a mile or two, then walked the beach, talking, always talking, trying to cross the chasms between them, to plumb the deeps within them.

To his own surprise, Krycek began to spend more time out in the wood shop, helping Skinner sort out and reorganize some of his wood, holding the dummy end of the measuring tape, bracing larger pieces, sweeping up. They spent hours in quiet partnership, working together without the need for discussion. Alex felt himself relaxing into Skinner's silences, almost restorative after the deep and sometimes painful conversations he seemed to need to have with Mulder. Skinner had recently finished making his own chessboard, so the work sessions in Skinner's shop were punctuated by breaks for chess over by the Franklin stove.

It was during those three or four daily games that the two men gradually grew to know one another. Each became accustomed to catching glimpses of the other in the quiet spaces between moves. Their words struck Alex like the flickering passage of a wild animal in the brush, quickly glimpsed, but never entirely seen nor understood in the moment.

Once, he wondered why the chess board, a beautiful piece of oak and cherrywood, was never moved into the house.

"Mulder doesn't play chess."

"Really?"

"Really. I live with the king of instant gratification. If I didn't know better I'd say he had ADD. The man has no patience for this sort of thing. He can't wait for anything."

Krycek was trying to fit this information into the picture of the obsessed man he used to know. "I guess he burned up all of his patience on the X-files and the conspiracy stuff," Alex offered, moving a pawn.

Skinner promptly took it. "Probably. He hasn't got the tenacity for non-essential things any more, therefore no strategy. He never did, really. He's always been very reactive. It's no fun to play against someone if they can't attack and defend at the same time. You need to play against someone who understands the idea of sacrificing a piece deliberately in order to accomplish something larger." Skinner looked at Krycek thoughtfully. "No wonder you like chess."

"Yeah. The old smoking bastard was a hell of a chess teacher."

"Among other things," Skinner agreed dryly.

Mulder touched him. A lot. Casual caresses, a hand on the shoulder, one-armed hugs, and the occasional gentle kiss which did more to keep Alex off balance than anything else in this odd menage. Alex kept waiting for Skinner to bring it up, yet he never mentioned it, never seemed to notice. He had walked into the kitchen once, just as Krycek was trying to catch his breath after one of Mulder's very focused kisses. He knew what he had to look like; something had flickered in Skinner's eyes, but it was gone the next instant and his voice had sounded perfectly normal when he greeted them.

Mulder was just as hands-on with Skinner. Not demonstrative, exactly; it was almost as if he were using physical contact to continually prove ... something... to himself. And Walter Skinner, not the most cuddly person Alex could name, tried to give Mulder what he needed. The two men were almost always in some sort of physical contact; an arm along the back of the sofa, a hand resting on a thigh, hands playing absently in dark hair as they read or watched TV. They rarely embraced or kissed in his presence, for which he was profoundly grateful.

One morning, about a week after that shattering night in their bed, he had wandered into the bathroom, too sleepy to be careful or observant. Skinner, still wet and steaming from his shower, had been plastered against the wall, pinned by Mulder on his knees before him. Alex had been unable to do anything but watch as Mulder skillfully and enthusiastically brought Skinner up to the edge of orgasm, then pushed him over with a cheerful headtoss. In that last instant before Skinner had come, he had opened his eyes and seen Alex. They had stared at one another for long moments, before the pleasure ripped Skinner away and closed his eyes, locking him away from Krycek.

Back in his own room, Alex had expected the gnawing jealousy he felt. He had been ready for the hunger and the raking of sheer lust that he felt at the bare idea of Mulder naked, on his knees, and ready to swallow him whole. He hadn't been ready for anything else he had felt. Not the sense of the beauty of the two men together, not the need he had to touch the two of them, not that jolt of connection he had felt when Skinner's gaze met his. And certainly not the need he had to cherish Mulder, to either pick him up and lead him to a soft bed to love him for hours or to join him on that floor...

Another chess game, another conversation.

"Skinner, I don't exactly work and play well with others. How are we gonna work this so Mulder doesn't get chewed up between us?"

"I have no idea. This wasn't what I'd...."

"I know. This wasn't what you'd planned on."

The two men grinned at one another, surprised again by that spark of connection.

"I'm not too good at sharing my toys either, Krycek."

"I'd guessed," Krycek flashed another grin, remembering the one bite mark that could still be seen over the collar of Mulder's flannel shirt. Mulder had blushed like a teenager when Krycek noticed it.

"We'll work it out," Skinner promised, suddenly heartened by the sense that he *knew* Alex Krycek now and recognizing for the first time that he truly had nothing to fear from Mulder's feeling for this man.

"OK," Krycek agreed and absently took his Queen's bishop. "Checkmate."

* * * * *

Thanksgiving was approaching; Mulder was on edge with excitement. Although he had never enjoyed holidays as a child, he was growing fond of them now, but he had a family now with whom holidays could be shared. Samantha, her husband, the twins, and their golden retriever were coming in for Thanksgiving, and Mulder genuinely looked forward to spending the day with both his sister and the man who had brought her back into Mulder's life. Samantha had professed similar anticipation over the telephone. By the time Mulder had included his mother -there was no way not to invite her - and Samantha's best friend, the head librarian of a community college library, her husband, and their children, who were of an age with Samantha's twin girls, he had assembled twelve for Thanksgiving. He deployed Krycek as his lieutenant in the kitchen, and informed Skinner in no uncertain terms that Skinner was in charge of football game crowd control in the living room for the day. That was probably the hardest job, entailing control of the television remote, beer can patrol, snack food monitoring, and keeping children and dogs from blocking the view of the television. However, it did entitle the delegate to watch all of the football he wanted, so it was also the best job of the day in Skinner's estimation.

The holiday weekend was pleasant and singularly uneventful, as was the week following. The snows were beginning, flurries icing the sand dunes along the beach with a silver-white coating of snow. Maxie moved fractionally closer to the fireplace in the evenings, though Casey was all too happy to frolic on the icy crust in the morning.

Krycek had begun to relax visibly since the morning he had brought his hosts breakfast; Mulder came home from a library steering committee meeting that Tuesday afternoon to find Krycek and Skinner on the living room couch, each reclining from the opposite end of the couch with their legs negligently tangling in the middle around a bowl of popcorn. Mulder merely grinned. Alex, he thought, was beginning to look downright domesticated, his nose occasionally buried in an old financial accounting textbook of Skinner's that he had found in the attic.

* * * * *

ANTIPHRASIS

Nearly a month after Alex Krycek had been kidnapped?... rescued?... retrieved?... from that trashy bar in upstate New York, he awoke early one morning and discovered that it was time to leave.

He got up and flexed and twisted and found that he was nearly completely healed. His ribs only gave him a slight twinge; his muscles were flexible and he had put on weight again. He was well-rested and found that he had regained a sense of energy and purpose that he hadn't had in nearly two years. There were people to see, things to do, a life to be finished with... it was time.

He dressed in the best of the clothes that Mulder and Skinner had lent him. Mulder's jeans and Skinner's shirt and sweater. Boots. His own belt and leather jacket. The jacket had been cleaned and repaired; he had discovered it hanging in the closet in his room two weeks ago; the laundry ticket in the pocket said "Skinner". His holster had been cleaned and oiled, as well, and it hung beside the jacket.

It was almost five a.m. as he catfooted downstairs and went to the cabinet in which Mulder had hidden his gun. Then he went and retrieved the clip and the spare ammunition from a decorative vase on the mantelpiece. He smiled; Mulder had chosen excellent hiding places, but Alex had been bored one long rainy morning when both men had been out of the house. Curiosity tempered with tenacity had always been his hallmarks.

He went back into the kitchen to find himself a snack. He estimated that he had at least an hour before either of the other two got up. By 6 a.m., he'd be over the Bourne Bridge and well on his way to Boston and points west. He told himself that he wasn't running, he was simply making it easier for all of them. This way, there would be no embarrassing scenes, no strings, no ties ... no reason for Mulder to ask him to stay. He had things to do, things that Mulder wouldn't understand and Skinner wouldn't condone. There were loose ends that needed an expert's hand to them tie up or cut them off, as circumstances warranted. There was also a car to steal; his lip quirked when he thought of what Mulder would say.

It's for the best, he told himself coolly and sat down to make sure his hardware was in good order. As he snapped the clip into the pistol, a voice said,

"Going somewhere, Krycek?"

He nearly jumped. Oh shit. He did *not* need this right now.

He looked up and was captured by the angry glitter in the other man's eyes. "Skinner. I'm leaving."

"I can see that." The dark gaze was unwavering. Krycek checked the clip and slid it back into the pistol, then slipped the pistol back into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

"What I want to know is - why?"

Krycek shrugged his shoulders, partially to settle the shoulder holster, grown unfamiliar with weeks of non-use, and partly as an answer to the big man in the doorway. How could anyone look that menacing in a bathrobe?

"Not good enough, Krycek. Why are you leaving?"

He gritted his teeth at the casually commanding tone in Skinner's voice. "Because I feel like it! That was the deal, wasn't it? I stayed here, I healed, I could leave when I wanted. I'm healed. So I'm leaving." He saw Skinner's jaw clench, then relax slowly as he nodded, remembering the terms of Krycek's stay.

"Will you be back?" he asked quietly.

Krycek looked up sharply. "I...don't know. I hadn't planned on...," he stopped, not willing to tell any more of the truth than necessary to get away from this man who always seemed to compel him to expose more of himself than he wanted.

"Why are you really leaving, Alex?" Skinner asked softly. Damn. Before he realized it, Alex Krycek was telling the unvarnished truth. Again. How does he *do* that?, Krycek wondered, even as he said,

"I can't live off you any more. I have some money and some 'business' opportunities that I can still tap. It's time for me to hunt for myself again." His face darkened. "And there's still the little matter of Vladimir to be dealt with..."

But Skinner was nodding, as if he had heard the truth in Alex's words and accepted it. "What about Mulder?"

Alex Krycek couldn't answer. How to explain that he felt himself changing, becoming someone different, transmuting under the unceasing heat and pressure of Mulder's affection? How to explain that the gentle look in Mulder's eyes frightened him more than the psychotic bloodthirsty Mulder who had once held a gun to his face?

"He's got you."

Skinner nodded once, but said, "And he wants you, too."

"Jesus, Skinner, what do you want?! I would have thought that I couldn't leave fast enough for you!"

Skinner smiled a little sadly, one corner of his mouth quirking. "You'd think," he said ruefully. "Just come back, Alex."

It took Alex Krycek a moment to correctly interpret the expression in Walter Skinner's eyes. Krycek's eyes closed as he realized that the two of them had outflanked him. Where he could run from Mulder standing before him, he couldn't evade Skinner too. He was well and truly caught.

"Damn you two," he snarled.

Skinner smiled.

Krycek shrugged his leather and gun oil persona back about him. "Tell Mulder I'll bring him a present." He flashed a cocky grin and headed for the door. He was almost home free when Skinner's voice touched him.

"Alex - who has to die for you to bring Mulder a present?"

'Oh no,' Alex groaned internally, 'here it comes.' His shoulders slumped and he turned around, waiting for the ultimatum. Skinner just looked at him, serious, concerned, silent.

After uncounted moments, Krycek snarled, "All right! White collar only, I promise. No one dies. No contracts. Is that good enough for you?"

"Vladimir?"

This time, Krycek groaned aloud. "Skinner - that's family business. He deserves it, trust me." That same steady regard, demanding nothing but compelling him nonetheless.

"Fine!" he snapped. "Vladimir is safe. More or less," he said under his breath.

Skinner nodded, smiling slightly. He crossed the room and put his hands on Krycek's shoulders. "Safe journey, Alex," Walter said softly, then bent and kissed him the way his grandfather had when he was a child, leaving home --once on each cheek, then a brief brush across his lips. Alex could feel his eyes burning when Skinner stepped back.

"I hate you," he said without heat.

"I know," Skinner smiled gently and handed him the Wagoneer's keys. "Bring it back without a scratch or Mulder will have a fit."

Alex Krycek went out into the darkness before dawn, smiling.

* * * * *

ANALECTION

When Mulder awoke and found that Alex had gone, Skinner was prepared for every kind of reaction except the one that he got -- resigned acceptance. At least until Mulder discovered that it was *his* car Krycek had ... borrowed. Mulder spent all of breakfast and most of lunch sputtering and muttering about the graphically unloving things he wanted to do to Alex Krycek when he caught up with him. Skinner finally grew tired of it and all but shoved Mulder out to review the latest set of galleys from his publisher.

A short time later, the telephone rang in the house, where Skinner was idling with the television. "Walter," Mulder yelped, "get over here. I've got an e-mail from him."

Skinner grabbed his jacket and dashed out to Mulder's study. Mulder sat in his desk chair with his legs crossed under him on the seat. "Damn Alex," sighed Mulder. "What's that line about leopards and spots?"

He pointed to the screen.
    
    
    "To: fwm1@ma.on~line.com
    From: ak47@hotmail.com
    Re: Thanks for the car, Dad
    
    Mulder - I did what you said.  And I'm not entirely better yet, but I'm well
    enough to do this.  I owe you and Skinner, and I know what to do about it.  I
    should be back by summer but you'll hear from me before then.  If you don't hear
    from me by Christmas, call your friend Langly.  This e-mail address will find me
    but I don't know how often I'll have a chance to access it.
    
    Tell Skinner thanks for the financial accounting book, and for the medical
    assistance.  I couldn't have made it this far without him.  Oh - tell him I
    promise to keep it white collar.  He'll know what I mean.
    
    /It is sometime since I have been
    to what it was had once turned me backwards,
    and made my head into
    a cruel instrument.
    
    It is simple
    to confess.  Then done,
    to walk away, walk away,
    to come again./
    
    --- Alex"
    

Skinner chuckled; Mulder looked up at him, curious. "Looks like Krycek took a piece of advice I gave him to heart," Skinner explained. "Also your poetry anthology. I think we've created a monster."

"I don't care what we've created," Mulder spluttered, exasperated. "And I don't care what he's up to. But damn it, he's got my Wagoneer. And I won't get any insurance coverage on it unless I report it stolen. Shit."

Two weeks later, there was another e-mail.
    
    
    "To: fwm1@ma.on~line.com
    From: ak47@hotmail.com
    Re: Hi
    
    /Nervy with neons, the main drag
    was all there was.  A placeless place.
    A faint flavor of Mexico in the tacos
    tasting of gasoline.  Trucks refueled
    Before taking off through space./"
    

And that was all.

"I don't get it at all," Mulder vented. "What the hell is he trying to tell us? I'm lost."

"Well, Krycek isn't," Skinner snorted. "And apparently he's been doing a little reading on the side. He's in the Californian desert, I'd guess," Skinner mused, reading over Mulder' shoulder and absently rubbing at the tense muscles he found there.

"How do you get that?"

"Because, Oxford grad, that's from a poem celebrating - of all places - Barstow, California. I have no idea what he's up to, but that's where he is. However, I doubt if he'd tell us where he is if he were planning to stay there. At least he's in one piece."

"Yeah. God, what kind of mileage is he piling on my car?"

And Skinner, hearing the worry and yearning behind the cranky words, kissed him lightly on the temple and kept rubbing.

A week before Christmas. Mulder entered the kitchen after working in his study, stamping snow off of his Bean boots. Skinner was at the stove making coffee. "Your broker called," he informed his lover. "He was confirming a purchase."

"Huh? I didn't buy anything."

"Tell him that," Skinner replied. "You seem to be the proud owner of fifteen hundred shares of American Megatherium now."

"American Megatherium?" Mulder gulped. "Sam's husband was talking up Megatherium at Thanksgiving. I asked Scott about it, but three fifty a share is way too salty for me. What's Scott mean, fifteen hundred shares?" He stamped back out to his study, booted his computer, and called his broker, who cheerfully confirmed that Mulder had just purchased fifteen hundred shares of Megatherium. For cash.

While he was still staring at the screen in bewilderment, an email arrived.
    
    
    "To: fwm1@ma.on~line.com
    From: ak47@hotmail.com
    Re: Conspicuous consumption
    
    Mulder - In case you don't hear from me shortly, Merry Christmas.  Or Happy
    Hanukkah - your choice.  I've taken the liberty of sending you a holiday present
    by way of your broker; sorry I hacked your on-line account to do it, but your
    brother-in-law is right about Megatherium.
    Let's just say a former Megatherium director owed me a few favors.  Oh, I sent a
    present to the Gunmen too.  Don't even ask.
    
    /The Elwha River, I explained, is a real river.../
    There are no redwoods north of southern Curry County, Oregon./
    
    Thank Walter for letting me borrow the poetry anthology; I have to do something
    between jobs.  I guess the cultural shit is rubbing off.  Thank him again for
    the financial accounting refresher, by the way.
    Love, Alex."
    

A call from Langly.

"You know, Mulder, it's interesting how many of the businessmen involved in the Consortium were from the Pacific states, you know it? We wound up with a list of the businesses indirectly involved. Did you know that the chairman of Oregon Paper mills - he used to be a director at American Megatherium - was the treasurer for those dudes? Byers says there's about twenty million of Oregon Paper mills and AmMeg money unaccounted for that this guy might have diverted before the Consortium collapsed. Somebody's sending Byers anonymous mailings on this stuff. We checked it out and it's all true. Jeez, you can't trust anyone. I was gonna get a cabin out there but I think they've sold out worse than we have, and that's not even counting all of Bill Gates' spies out there."

Four-thirty, Christmas Eve. Mulder was suffering the torments of the damned, waiting for confirmation that Scully and her husband would be in by seven. The doorbell rang. Mulder ran to the front door to answer it, halfway expecting a few of the local schoolchildren to be up to last minute charity collecting. Instead, it was a young man in a service uniform from a Boston auto dealer, with a flatbed car carrier behind him.

"Is there a Mr. Fox Mulder at this residence?"

"Uh, yeah, me. Why?"

"Well, I was asked to deliver a Christmas present for you." The man looked at his clipboard and read in a flat South Boston accent,

"Uh...Alex says thanks for letting him use the car and he hopes this will replace it okay. Sign here."

Skinner wandered downstairs and looked out the window. "Mulder, what's that Range Rover doing in the driveway?"

"I'm not sure, but something tells me that someone else owed Alex a favor."

"He's a touch extravagant, your boytoy."

They stood watching the delivery man unhook the car and park it in the driveway. "At least it's the same color as the Wagoneer," Skinner offered, then sighed, "And all I got you was a sweater."

"Well, if I need to hunt the rat-bastard down, I've got all the driving capacity needed for a safari."

Skinner dropped a hand on his lover's shoulder. "Is that any way to talk about someone who just gave you a shiny new toy for Christmas?"

Mulder looked at the older man inquiringly, his head tilted slightly. "Walter Skinner, if I didn't know better, I'd think you missed Alex."

Skinner shrugged, a little embarrassed by the gently speculative look on Mulder's face. "Why shouldn't I? He could play chess. And I have to admit he's really starting to understand modern poetry."

It wasn't until later, when they took the new car out for a test drive, that they saw the bumper sticker. Walter noticed it first, as he crossed behind the Rover heading for the passenger side. There, professionally positioned on the extreme left edge of the rear bumper, was the message:

"Earth is Full, Go Home!"

They nearly laughed themselves sick.

* * * * *

New Year's, then February. An e-mail near Valentine's Day, this time to Skinner's account:
    
    
    "To: wss~1@ma.on~line.com
    From: ak47@hotmail.com
    Re: Whiter whites
    
    /What I expected, was/Thunder, fighting,/Long struggles with men/And
    climbing./After continual straining/I should grow strong;/Then the rocks would
    shake,/and I rest long./
    
    Happy Valentine's Day.  My collar is purer than the driven snow.  You'll be
    hearing about my activities shortly, Walter.  Think of it as a bouquet of
    delayed justice.  Love to Mulder.
    Alex."
    

Skinner rubbed his head. "I can hardly wait," he muttered, wondering what Alex Krycek would consider an appropriate Valentine's gift for his lover's lover. He ignored the treacherous tickle of hope that Alex might come back.

A week later, after dinner, Skinner turned on the network news. He figured that life had not changed much if Tom Brokaw was still putting the world in order every evening. Mulder came in, carrying coffee mugs, at the first commercial break.

"You don't have any stock in Ogilvie Petrochemical, do you?" Skinner asked his lover.

"I'd better not; I told Scott to steer clear of petroleum stocks generally. Why do you ask?" Mulder settled onto the couch beside the older man, curling against his side.

"Donald Ogilvie was just arrested for embezzling one hundred fifty million dollars from the corporation. Why would he do that? The man's a billionaire."

The news resumed while Skinner lightly browsed in Mulder's hair and began stroking one finger down his throat. At first, they paid only sporadic attention to the newscast.

"In an apparently unrelated development," Brokaw droned, "Peter Carpenter, maverick businessman and political renegade, committed suicide today at his ranch in Montana. Carpenter was chairman and chief executive officer of Carpenter Pharmaceuticals ... accused yesterday by his corporate financial department of diverting fifty million dollars from corporate accounts to ... used to fund illegal research in biochemical engineering at three Spanish universities. ... denied any knowledge of the projects. ... he and Donald Ogilvie have been indirectly linked a few years ago to genetic research projects allegedly covered up by the federal government. With news of the impact of Carpenter's death on the world pharmaceutical markets, here's Ellen Chang with a special report...."

By the time pretty Ellen Chang began speaking, they were both staring at the screen, Mulder's shirt hanging half-open and forgotten.

"You don't think ... ?" Mulder sighed.

"I don't think is right. I know. It's got to be him."

"In business news," Brokaw continued after Chang's report, "the stock of Kenneth Aeronautics took a nosedive today after chairman William Kenneth was found at a stockholders' meeting at the Philadelphia Sheraton Society Hill in his suite with three call girls. Two of them, ages nineteen and twenty, had been provided with alcohol and cocaine, apparently by Mr. Kenneth. Kenneth has denied any knowledge of how the women, whom he claims were intoxicated when he found them, arrived in his room."

"I give up," Skinner groaned into his coffee mug. "I thought we were done with all that. Once is accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times is Alex Krycek. Was Bill Kenneth linked to anything Consortium-related?"

"I'd have to ask Byers to be sure," Mulder mused as he began gently soothing his lover's shoulders. "But I think he was providing technical support on some of the mechanical studies of the alien spacecraft for them."

"I knew it. Ooh - don't stop that - right there, yeah," Skinner sighed as Mulder's fingers dug into the knots in his shoulders. "Apparently that's our Valentine's Day present from Krycek."

"Well, it certainly beats a box of chocolates," Mulder pointed out, a demonic grin beginning to bloom at the thought of a little one-armed retribution visiting the last of the Consortium Untouchables. He saw the edge of Skinner's mouth start to turn upward as well and knew that he was just as tickled by the effervescent feeling of Justice being served to those bastards. He had to admit that, in the gift-giving department, Krycek had style.

* * * * *

Then it was March, and a blustery cold Easter, shared with both Sam and her family and with Scully and her husband. After years of treatments, Scully was pregnant, and the day brought them no common dose of joy. But looking at Mulder down the table, Skinner knew that Mulder needed one more face at the table to make him truly happy.

Later that day, Skinner found another e-mail waiting for him.

"I don't get it," Mulder groused when Skinner dragged him away from playing chess with his niece to read it. "The poetry is hard enough to figure out, but that looks like code."

"It's not code," Skinner said gruffly. "It's Russian. Transliterated, not in Cyrillic. If I remember what little I grew up with around my grandparents and cousins, it's part of the Orthodox Easter liturgy on death and resurrection. It's about hope and renewal - I did tell him I grew up with Russian Orthodox relatives - but knowing Alex Krycek, it has to mean something else."

Mulder, seated at Skinner's keyboard, closed out Skinner's e-mails and logged on for his own mail. "I've got one from Alex too. If it's in Hebrew, he's dead. Unless you read that, too?"

"Did I ever tell you about my college roommate? Yitz Kauffmann? The college Hillel president? The only guy I knew who got his first lay in the back seat of a car with a Catholic girl while wearing a yarmulke?"

"No, you didn't," Mulder sighed. "I should have known, Walter. Oh - wait -no, it's English. In fact, it's ... Sylvia Plath, I think."
    
    
    "To: fwm1@ma.on~line.com
    From: ak47@hotmail.com
    Re: (no subject)
    
    /The second time I meant
    To last it out and not come back at all.
    I rocked shut
    
    As a seashell.
    They had to call and call
    And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
    
    Dying
    Is an art, like everything else.
    I do it exceptionally well.
    
    I do it so it feels like hell.
    I do it so it feels real.
    I guess you could say I've a call.
    
    It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
    It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
    It's the theatrical
    
    Comeback in broad day
    To the same place, the same face, the same brute
    Amazed shout:
    
    'A miracle!'
    That knocks me out.
    There is a charge
    
    For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
    For the hearing of my heart -
    It really goes.
    
    And there is a charge, a very large charge,
    For a word or a touch
    Or a bit of blood
    
    Or a piece of my hair or my clothes./
    
    Mulder:
    
    They've killed me three or four times over.  Now they're gone, and I'm still
    here.  And I think I've finally gotten my charge for the pieces they took in the
    process.  Revenge may not be enough, but it's close. I'll be heading east again,
    but don't wait up for me...
    
    /I still have plans to go to Mexico this summer/
    

The note was unsigned.

"I take it back," Mulder laughed.

"What's that?"

"I guess Alex does have a taste for Berryman."

Neither of them commented on the hesitant, skittish sound of Alex's message. It was obvious that he had reached a crisis point and there wasn't a damned thing they could do to help him. Who are you when everything you've ever fought for or against is gone? They had each gone through that particular fire separately, as every man must.

They silently agreed to await developments and Alex Krycek together.

A few weeks later, Easter, and Dana Scully, having passed once again from the Cape, and the weather was on the upturn, Mulder sat crosslegged at his desk chair in the study. It was time to review some lecture notes, with a talk at Columbia scheduled for that weekend. This crew would enjoy antigovernment paranoia, he figured; nothing like the actual history of Area 51 coverage to induce fear and loathing in even the least skeptical.

The "mail" chime played on the computer. From Alex. It began with another quote.
    
    
    "To: fwm1@ma.on~line.com
    From: ak47@hotmail.com
    Re: The Apple in Decay
    
    /'Ah nuts!  It's boring reading French newspapers/in New York as if I were a
    colonial waiting for my gin...'/
    
    Dear Mulder:
    I see in the Village Voice that you're at Columbia University on Friday night
    and Saturday.  Hate to miss the talk but I figure I'm part of it anyway - been
    there, done that, still have the t-shirt.
    I've got a little more moving to do, and I don't love New York any more, not
    after last year.  A few more markers to call in before I can hang this up.  I'm
    too old for the game any more; I just want to close out my hand with as big a
    flush as I can engineer before I deal myself out for good.   You did the same
    thing when you left the Bureau, and you know it.  You'd never have left without
    your sister, a book deal, and your man there.
    
    I hope to hell you don't hate my guts, but you can tell me when I bring back the
    car.  Love, Alex."
    

Mulder spoke to the computer. "I don't hate you, Alex. Come on home." Then he went to tell Walter.

* * * * *

A few days before Memorial Day. No e-mails; surprisingly, however, a postcard. A picture of Fanueil Hall, postmarked Boston, with no return address. Two lines in the message space.
    
    
    /Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
    sandpiles in the heart of Boston./
    

No signature. Skinner and Mulder looked at each other and nodded; no signature was needed. The prodigal appeared to be on the direct return route home.

* * * * *

IDYLLS:

It was a dark evening a week later when they drove in and noticed that the motion detectors didn't turn on the outside lights. Then Mulder pointed out that the houselights were all off as well- he had certainly left one or two on. Skinner turned off the headlights and let the car coast in, stopping before the curve of the driveway.

"I'm probably being paranoid," he started.

Mulder reached up and flipped off the cabin light switch, to prevent the interior of the car from lighting up as they got out. "I'll take the back, you take the front," he said shortly and loosened the gun in his holster. A hand reached out and touched Skinner's shoulder, then Mulder was slipping from the car, leaving the door ajar and moving silently into the dark.

Skinner knew he was overreacting. Probably. If it turned out that the power was out and the generator hadn't kicked in, he was going to feel like a fool. But he and Mulder had so many old enemies and more than one ex-FBI man had lost his life to some old adversary.

He got out and decided on a straightforward approach, walking confidently up the front walk, up the stairs. He could hear the ocean's soothing rhythm and see the outlines of the porch furniture in the starlight. Casey gave one short, happy-sounding "Yarf!" at the sound of his step on the porch. That tore it -the dog was plainly too calm for there to be an intruder. Shaking his head at his own overtrained fight or flight response, he reached for his keys. And stopped when the shadow at his shoulder rippled and there was the cold touch of gunmetal at his left temple.

"Put your hands on the doorframe," a voice spat.

Skinner complied, mind working furiously. His gun was in its holster in the small of his back - useless now. The gun at his temple began sliding down the left side of his face, an obscene caress that made him shiver. Where the hell was Mulder?

The shadow man's hand began patting him down, finding his weapon and relieving him of it in record time. Damn. He would have to wait until Mulder distracted his assailant, then... His was shocked out of his tactical planning when that shadowy hand began running over his chest, then slid slowly down his abdomen. His fingers dug into the doorframe. "What the hell are you doing?!"

There was no answer, but the muzzle of the gun tucked itself under the point of his jaw and that wandering hand slipped down his right thigh.

Terrific. It wasn't enough that someone from their past had tracked them here; it had to be a pervert from their past. His attacker's hand crept across his leg to press against his groin. He choked and squirmed away. His movement was stopped when the barrel of the gun, now warmed by his skin, dug in.

"What do you want?" his voice grated out.

"How about a kiss?"

It took a moment for Skinner to realize that the breathy whisper was familiar, then his fear turned into a red haze and he was preparing to spin and rend the man behind him when there was the merest whisper of movement and the hand on him went very still. The gun was taken away from his jaw and the hand dropped away. Slowly, he turned.

Alex Krycek stood behind him, both hands in the air, Mulder's gun tucked snugly beneath his left eye. His lover's eyes met his, one spark away from hilarity. As well he might be, Skinner grouched internally, *he* hadn't had been the one thinking he was about to catch a bullet on his own front porch.

He took a deep breath, violently suppressing his urge to pummel either or both of the grinning men before him. He resolutely did not think about why the three of them needed to play such sharp-edged games, nor why he was hard and hot and achingly ready; the past left its marks in the strangest places.

"Krycek - don't you ever knock?"

Then he and Mulder had Krycek sandwiched in between them and there was no more to be said.

* * * * *

In retrospect, Walter Skinner knew better than to allow the Mulder and Krycek out of the house unsupervised the next morning. Particularly the new, improved version of Alex Krycek that had returned to them. This was no longer the battered, broken man they had nursed last autumn. This was Alex Krycek back in form; glossy, brassy, energetic and as ready for mischief as a business of ferrets. And Mulder was his match, bouncing and chattering.

Skinner knew better, but he'd allowed himself to be lulled by the excellent breakfast they served him and the exhausted hum of his own well-loved body. The unusual luxury of letting someone else deal with the tedious Saturday morning errands drowned out the little warning bell that went off when he thought about Mulder and Krycek loose together on the Outer Cape. So Skinner had no one to blame when the two of them returned a few hours later, arms full of groceries, laughing like boys. Obviously something was afoot.

He dragged himself off the couch to start putting away groceries when he saw Mulder go back out to the car and return with a tuxedo in a rental bag. Skinner put away two gallons of milk - Alex drank it like a calf - and wondered. He knew he had seen Mulder's tux upstairs next to his own in an unused corner of the closet. Then it hit him -- the Highland Lighthouse Gala Fund raiser was tonight - and it was black tie. As a trustee, he was expected to be there and Mulder was invited as a matter of course. Mulder clearly thought that Skinner preferred being in the closet, but Walter had never hidden his lover away and routinely refused any invitations that didn't include Mulder. The rented tux had to be for Alex.

Walter Skinner stood in front of the open refrigerator door while he considered the idea of Alex Krycek loosed upon a collection of Yankee Society matrons, environmentalists and historical preservationists. A dull pain began at the base of his skull.

Mulder shut the door of the refrigerator for him. "Walter, we ran into Barbara Hatch at the post office. She..."

Barbara Hatch was the biggest gossip in town. She was also the wealthiest and was hosting the evening at her summer "cottage" which rivaled the Vanderbilt's little summer hut in Newport. And she adored handsome men of all ages and sexual preferences. She would have fallen on Krycek like a starving lioness on fresh meat.

"... invited Krycek to the gala tonight," Skinner sighed.

Mulder grinned admiringly. "That detective ability must be why they made you an A.D. Anyway, we picked up a tux for Alex while we were out."

"Oh, good," he said wryly. "Mulder, what happened to low profile for him?"

Alex came back into the kitchen with the last of the groceries, a 25lb bag of dog food slung over one shoulder and Casey dogging his footsteps with devotion. "We took care of that. We told her that I was Mulder's brother."

Skinner slumped against the fridge. "Brother? You told her he was your brother?" Unbidden, a shockingly graphic memory of Krycek slowly sliding into Mulder's body last night flashed through Skinner's head, leaving him flushed and breathless.

"Our is a *very* close family." Alex's grin was pure wickedness.

"And how are you explaining the different names?"

"Actually, we told her he was my half-brother," Mulder explained cheerfully.

"Oh, good," Skinner repeated, feeling a sense of impending doom. "Please tell me you didn't tell her his name was Alex Krycek?"

"Of course not," Mulder said hastily. "He told her his name was Alex Corcoran."

"My mother's maiden name," Krycek explained, putting the dog food in the pantry. "At least, I think it was," he added reflectively. "That's the name I used all the way through school, anyway."

"Gentlemen, I believe we agreed on 'low profile'. None of us wants it getting around certain circles that there is a one-armed man answering to the name of 'Alex' staying with us. It would call too much attention to us and likely get one or all of us killed. I don't want a repeat of last night."

"No?" purred Alex Krycek from right behind him, running his hand down the seam of Skinner's blue jeans, making him gasp.

"No?" growled Mulder, rubbing against Skinner's front, hands straying beneath his t-shirt. Pinned between the two of them, Skinner tried valiantly to stick to the point.

"I meant that I'd rather not get shot on my own porch some fine evening. Nor do I want either of you...oh hell!"

He lost the thread of his argument as Mulder began gently running his tongue across Skinner's lips and Krycek's mouth was hot on the tender skin behind his ear. By the time his shirt was gone, he knew he had lost the argument as well.

That evening, as he tied the younger man's bowtie, Skinner reminded Krycek about the 'low profile' agreement. Then, knowing who he was dealing with, he defined the words 'low profile', 'discretion' and 'careful', as he tied Mulder's tie for him. He had only the vaguest hope that they would restrain themselves - the limpid looks of utter innocence he got from both Mulder and Krycek were warning enough, like the rattle on a snake. But at least he would have the moral high ground in whatever debacle ensued from tonight's adventure.

The Hatch Estate was glittering when they arrived. A string quartet played in one corner, waiters circulated with platters of irritatingly dainty food and insipid champagne. The three men paused in the doorway of the ball room, unconscious of the striking tableau they presented. Popular in their own right, there was no way that Mulder and Skinner could avoid introducing their eye-catching companion as various admirers and friends swarmed around them. Skinner was vaguely reassured as Alex made polite and socially correct replies to his first new acquaintances. The three men were soon separated by the press of the crowd and Skinner lost track of both of his lovers.

When he next caught sight of Alex, the younger man was standing beside Barbara Hatch, her plump white hand pressing his shoulder comfortingly. The unnaturally grave and resigned expression on Krycek's face gave Skinner a premonitory chill. When next he saw him, there was a small collection of Barbara's close friends around him. Most were also trustees, so Walter allowed himself to drift into the group, just in time to hear one earnest young man ask,

"And what are your plans now, Major Corcoran?"

Major?! And then he heard Krycek's reply.

"I'm not sure. There aren't too many experimental aircraft made for one-handed pilots yet," and he raised his artificial limb with an expression compounded of resignation, fortitude, and faith in the future. Skinner wanted to strangle him on the spot and left quickly to remove himself from temptation.

Mulder caught his eye from across the room and held up a fresh drink in invitation. Plowing through the parade of backless evening dresses and black wool tuxedos, Skinner reached Mulder's side. Without a word, he took Mulder's gin and tonic and swallowed half of it before handing it back to him.

"How's he doing?" Mulder asked cheerfully, eyes on Alex as he illustrated some anecdote with an energetic wave of his hand.

"Your 'brother', the major, has convinced his harem that he lost his arm in some military experimental testing accident. Apparently, he was a pilot."

Mulder blinked, then gulped the rest of his drink. "Oh, shit," he said faintly.

He ordered two more drinks for them as various acquaintances began coming by to chatter excitedly about Mulder's exotic and intriguing brother and to relate some of the fascinating stories he had shared. They began drinking really heavily when Barbara Hatch remarked that she had invited Alex to join the Restoration Committee.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE:

"Major Alex Corcoran" gave himself a once-over in his mirror before leaving the bedroom. LL Bean pleated khakis, cuffed. Blue and white chalk stripe shirt. Navy hopsacking blazer, courtesy of the downtown Boston Brooks Brothers shop. One pair of devastating emerald eyes with heavy lids and dark lashes, original issue, which he would flutter meaningfully today while lunching with his best client. Who said you had to give up being devious when you retired from the game? The primary trustee of the Hatch Foundation was going to be eating out of the palm of his hand again today at lunch and she was going to enjoy it. He, naturally, would enjoy it even more.

He strode into the kitchen, where Walter Skinner was finishing the process of scrambling eggs. "Morning, big guy."

Still waving the spatula, Skinner, denim work shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, said nothing but turned his head to plant a kiss firmly on Alex's cheek.

"Mmm. Remind me about last night, huh?" Alex purred

"As if you needed me to." The spatula went into the sink. "Coffee?"

Alex sank into a chair. "Please."

Skinner cast an appraising eye over Alex while pouring two mugs. "You look good. But where's the tie?"

"I was going to ask you about that. I think Mulder hid all of my favorite ties before he went on that damn trip to Vegas."

It was one of Mulder's more juvenile tricks to keep Alex from thinking he ruled the house completely. Walter would pre-tie all of Alex's ties for him and hang them, ready to wear. All Alex needed to do one-handed was to slide it into place and assume his CPA persona, as he had come to think of it. Mulder was constitutionally unable to leave his tie rack alone, especially when he knew he'd be likely to miss the explosion when Alex discovered his latest outrage. One particularly successful maneuver, when both Walter and Mulder were going out of town for a week, had left Alex with nothing to wear to the office but a dull purple monstrosity spotted with daisy yellow polka dots.

"Again?" Alex could see Skinner's mouth trying not to twitch and he once again wondered if Mulder were the only one in the house who had it in for Alex's wardrobe.

"Wait a minute; I've got one that'll work with that outfit." Skinner exited the kitchen, forgetting his eggs. Alex could hear the larger man tramping up the stairs as he drank his coffee.

He returned in short order dangling a yellow silk foulard with a navy and maroon print. "How's this?" Alex nodded, smiled.

"Okay, hot stuff; stand up and I'll tie this thing for you." Alex rose obligingly, turned around, and pressed himself seductively along the length of Skinner's body.

"You have to go to work, Alex" Skinner reminded him a little breathlessly as he looped the tie around Alex's neck. He stopped for a moment to admire the precision placing of a love bite on Alex's neck. He had been very careful to fix it slightly behind Alex's ear and just over the collarline. It would be glaringly obvious to anyone who looked at Alex this morning, but placed just so that Alex wouldn't have noticed it while shaving this morning. Walter Skinner smiled cheerfully to himself.

"Rosa can handle things 'til I get there." He ground his hips into Skinner as the other man's hands measured and looped the silk. "So why rush?"

Attempting to ignore the provocation, Skinner went on about the business of adjusting Alex's neck wear. "Half-windsor okay?"

"Fine." Alex continued his attempt to distract his lover from the task, only to be interrupted by loud barking.

"Okay, Casey! We hear you! Who's at the door, boy?" Under his breath, a muttered "shit" was clearly audible. Skinner, who was facing the kitchen door, chuckled as it swung open. Casey began chasing his tail in excitement.

"Well, don't let me interrupt," Mulder tossed a suitcase on the floor. "I catch an early flight back and what do I find? You're starting without me anyway."

"Then get your ass over here before you miss something." Skinner waved him over to them. "How was Vegas?"

"Disgusting. Hotter and tackier than ever. I hate doing those sci-fi con panels on extraterrestrial life. So naturally they repeated the panel for three days. Plus I had to do a fucking autograph session. I'm gonna have carpal tunnel or something." Mulder wormed his way into a three-way embrace, his arms around both of the other men.

"Carpal tunnel? Why not? It's about the only thing you didn't have when you worked at the Bureau," Skinner groused. He let go of Alex to catch both arms around Mulder and kiss him deeply. "How'd you get back here from the airport?" he asked when he finally released his lover from the kiss.

"I got a lift from the ferry with the Marshes next door." Mulder turned to Alex and smirked. "Nice tie, hot stuff. Looks just like one of Walter's." He slid an arm around Alex's neck and pulled the younger man over for a kiss.

"Quit fucking with my ties, Mulder," Alex threatened cheerfully upon relinquishing the embrace.

"Why?" Mulder asked, grinning. "We've gotta use someone's ties in bed and I'm not giving up mine." He went back to the suitcase. "Besides, I bought you your own Marvin the Martian tie while I was there." A silk tie with a repeated print of the little alien and his ray gun was waved at Alex.

"You only bought it so you can borrow it from me," Alex snorted. "And I can't wear it today. I'm having lunch with Barbara Hatch. It's time for the Foundation's quarterly taxes."

The rest of breakfast was eaten in the same querulously cheerful manner and it was after 11 when Alex got on his way, leaving Mulder and Skinner drowsing amidst the rumpled sheets.

Barbara Hatch was curled on a chaise in her sun room when Alex arrived at the Hatch mansion, which was rumored to be the largest seaside baronial retreat between Newport and southern Florida. The house always reminded Alex of a government-owned dacha on the coast of the Black Sea where he had stayed a few times. Of course, the caviar there had been better and more plentiful, as had the vodka; the boys had been amusing, too, for that matter. But Valery Arntzen was a long way away, and a long time past, as was Alex Krycek.

"Major Corcoran. So nice to see you. Please, sit down. It's a lovely day; I thought we'd look at papers and have lunch in here. If that suits you, of course."

"Mrs. Hatch, I would love to sit here with you all day anytime. But you know that." Soulful green eyes peered out from under long, fluttering lashes at Barbara Hatch, who was as soft, plush, and overstuffed as her furniture. She looked back at him with middle-aged adoration, edged with a certain amused gleam that always suggested that she knew exactly what he was doing and allowed it because it amused her. He liked her and what was more, respected her cheerfully ruthless business mind and her full-bodied enjoyment of life.

She rang for drinks as he opened a black ostrich-skin portfolio.

"The taxes are done; they'll just need your signature. I thought you might want to review the Foundation disbursements for last year while you were at it, so I had a spreadsheet done for you. I'll give it to you after lunch, so you can look at it and call me next week. At the rate the Foundation's making donations, you might want to restructure the investments."

"I don't know a thing about money, Major. You know that. You'll just do it for me, won't you?"

The maid arrived with a tray. Mrs. Hatch removed a martini and pointed Martin towards Alex. "So that takes care of the business. All before we even get to the drinks. How nice. Now, how are you and the boys doing?" Mulder and Skinner, though Skinner was likely Mrs. Hatch's contemporary if not actually her elder, were always "the boys."

"I know your brother's been out in Las Vegas. Dreadful town. So, well, you know. Over-stated." She waved one plump hand, adorned with a single understated 4 carat diamond solitaire.

The word "brother" had had a slight inflection to it, hadn't it? Barbara Hatch did her "dumb female" act very cleverly but Alex saw clear through her. *She'd* been the money mastermind, not her husband. She tended to call Alex once a week, ask him what he knew, if anything, about a particular stock, and whether it would be a good choice for the Foundation's portfolio. It usually was. He had no doubt, after all the time they'd spent working together, both professionally and with Mulder and Skinner on the lighthouse project and other charitable concerns, that Barbara Hatch had a perfectly good grasp of their domestic situation. Obviously, she didn't care.

"Monte Carlo is much nicer. You've been there, of course?" she added, playing with her ring.

"Yes, of course. I had a wonderful time." That was no lie. He had "invested" twenty thousand dollars' worth of money that had been part of an arms deal on the roulette tables there. A little strategic betting and more strategic manipulation had netted him thirty thousand in pocket change after he replaced the borrowings, and he'd made a solid profit on the arms transaction as well. And the liquor and boys had been very easy to come by, he recalled. More long-past business. Who had he been then? Krycek? Arntzen? Or someone else? No matter.

Mrs. Hatch nodded. "It's a lovely place, just like Cancun. Which reminds me. I'm going to Cancun for a few weeks - at the beginning of June - and I do hate traveling alone. Especially where I don't know the language. You speak Spanish, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. Why do you ask?" And Russian, and German, and enough gutter French to get by in Marseilles that one time; it had served during those drug transactions in Algeria, too, as he recalled.

"Well - those Latin men - one needs an escort, you know. And I could use some company anyway. I'd asked Frederick if he could go, but he can't take off then."

Frederick was Mrs. Hatch's hairdresser. And probably the most flamboyantly "out" gay man in town. His "swishy hairdresser" routine - which was indeed a routine - seemed to be popular with clientele of a certain age. If Alex was her second choice after Frederick, either he now had her completely snowed or she knew exactly what was what; perhaps both.

"It's just after the Library Gala and before the Strawberry Festival, you understand. Everyone will need their hair done, so he'll be rather busy. Would you like to come? My treat, of course."

Alex bit his lip, trying to appear thoughtful while struggling not to laugh. "Well, I'll have to check with Mulder and Walt. It's a very nice offer."

"Please say you will, Major. We'd only be gone for two, perhaps three weeks. I'd love to have you, if the boys can live without you for that long."

While in Italy, he had run into several elegant older ladies who had each sported a cavaliere servente, a younger man who danced pleasant attendance upon them. In exchange for charming conversation and various light social duties, the young men were provided with all manner of tangible rewards and entry into the best that society had to offer. It was a good system, honorable in its way, and nothing so vulgar as a physical relationship was ever suggested.

He smiled at her, favoring her with a dazzling display of teeth. Major Alex Corcoran - retired test pilot, accountant, and tame escort to older rich clients? Well, why not? Mulder and Skinner would get a laugh out of it when he told them.

"All right, I'll do it. You won't even have to twist my arm. After all," he added, his grin becoming nearly feral with good humor and memory,

"I really did have plans to go to Mexico this summer."

Finis

Feedback would be cheerfully accepted at: and 

Poetry and literary terms used:
    
    
    PROLOGUE - you know that one!
    CANTO - one of the main divisions of a long poem
    PROTHALAMION - written to celebrate a marriage
    CAESURA - a break in the rhythm
    EXEMPLUM - a short narrative with a point, used to support a specific argument
    JEREMIAD - prolonged complaint or lamentation
    AGON - a dispute between the characters and the Greek chorus
    REFRAIN - regularly recurring phrase or idea
    ELLIPSIS - the omission of words essential to the meaning but easily filled in
    by the reader
    ANTIPHRASIS - ironical description
    ANALECTION - a passage made up of literary fragments
    IDYLLS - short poems describing charming episodes of everyday life
    (adapted from the Random House Word Menu)
    

 

* * *

 

Note: This is a sequel to the "I Still Have Plans To Go To Mexico" series. The original tale can be found at: http://members.aol.com/MJR91/ficintro.html Various prequels can be found there as well.  
Thanks: Kass, Anne, Leila, Pares, MJ...and Tucker.  
Feedback:   
Homepage: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html (thanks Mona!)

* * *

"Three Men in A Boat", a "Mexico" sequel  
by JiM

***

"What do you mean *he fell off a roof*?!"

Alex was almost grateful that Skinner was still unconscious. Mulder sounded like he was about to go up in smoke and there was a dangerous quaver hovering just below his words. Better that Mulder didn't get swamped by the same gnawing fear that had gripped Alex when he'd gotten the call from the paramedics who'd transported Skinner. Alex decided on a tried and true method to distract Mulder and keep him from panicking; he set out out piss him off.

"Which word didn't you get, Mulder?" he drawled. "Skinner *fell* *off* *a* *roof*."

It worked. He could hear Mulder's teeth grinding from two thousand miles away. "Look, you sorry son of a bitch, just tell me what's wrong with him and stop playing games!" But Mulder's voice had regained its strength; he knew instinctively that Alex wouldn't tease him if it were truly serious. As a burst of static temporarily cut Mulder off, Alex privately wished that *he* knew that Skinner's condition weren't serious, but he preferred to deal with one crisis at a time. He wanted Mulder kept on an even keel until they knew for certain whether their lover was ever going to wake up.

"He's fine, Mulder," Alex lied through his teeth. "A bit banged up, his head hurts, but otherwise, he's fine. The doctor's in with him now." 

Skinner had been inspecting a leaking roof with its owner when the other man had slipped. Skinner had grabbed for him, saving him with a sort of twisting dive and had wound up flipping himself off the steeply pitched roof onto the ground fifteen feet below. While the burlap-wrapped rose bushes beneath had broken his fall, he had been unconscious for over an hour now and had needed artificial resuscitation on the scene. Fortunately, the owner of the roof was one of Skinner's EMT buddies and had dealt competently with the emergency. But Skinner still hadn't regained consciousness.

"I'm on my way home," Mulder's voice came crackling back suddenly as Alex watched yet another nurse disappear behind the curtained exam cubicle in where Skinner was lying, pale and silent.

"Good. How long will it take you?" He heard Mulder mumbling, then snarling, at someone in the background before his voice came back on. He definitely sounded pissed now. 

"Two days."

"Where the hell are you?!"

"Chiapas. Don't ask. I'll be there as soon as I can." There was another burst of static. "Look, Alex, the satellite is moving out of range here and it's raining like nothing else on earth right now. Tell Walt..." Mulder's voice faded away, but Alex knew it had nothing to do with the communications satellite. 

"I know. I'll tell him. Just come home." And Alex broke the connection before either of them could get any more maudlin. He shoved his cell phone in his pocket and slouched against the wall, scowling at anyone who looked his way. He knew exactly what he looked like -- hard, dirty, dangerous -- a man with nothing to lose. One or two of Walt's fellow EMT's hovered around the periphery of his attention, but they were too bewildered by his transformation to approach him more than once.

If he tried, he could picture Mulder as he probably looked right at this moment -- tightly focused, rigidly in control, the very air around him humming with concentration as he devoted everything in him toward getting to Skinner's side as quickly as possible. Neither Mulder nor Alex were in any doubt as to what would happen if he were suddenly gone from their lives. Skinner was their anchor, their keystone. Alex suddenly thought that, if he were able, he would pray. Instead, all he could do was stare fixedly at those damned blue emergency room curtains and wait.

  
It took him a few moments to register the doctor standing in front of him. The man looked him up and down doubtfully, then asked again, "Mr. Corcoran? You're here for Mr. Skinner?"

At Alex's terse nod, the doctor consulted the paperwork in his hand and looked even more doubtful. "Mr. Skinner's emergency contact is listed as a Mr. Fox Mulder...."

"Mulder's my brother; he's traveling in rural Mexico, doctor. I contacted him and he's on his way home, but it could take as much as two days. I have his power of attorney. What is Mr. Skinner's condition?" Alex forced himself to speak calmly, slipping on his CPA persona, even though it jarred badly with his current state of mind and dress.

"Mr. Skinner is beginning to come around ..." Which was all he got the opportunity to say before Alex had slipped around him and behind that hated blue curtain.

Skinner was lying flat and unmoving, face nearly green under the harsh fluorescent lights. Without his glasses, he seemed more vulnerable, unprotected. There were scratches on his face and across the back of the hand that Alex gripped tightly in his own.

"Talk to him, Mr. Corcoran. Try to get him to respond to you. He's been out a while and may be confused or even have a bit of memory loss." The doctor had come to stand on the other side of the bed.

"Skinner? Come on, Skinner. Come on out of it. Shake it off. Open your eyes, Walt. If you're not awake when Mulder gets here, he'll shoot me this time for sure." Alex had no idea how inconsistent his low crooning was with his torn t-shirt, the battered leather jacket or the stained jeans he'd been wearing for a week now. He ignored the doctor's dubious look and bent lower, speaking gently into Skinner's ear, breath catching as Skinner started to stir. 

Skinner's eyelids flickered open, then squeezed shut as the bright light assaulted them. The doctor turned off the glaring examination light hanging over the bed and spoke.

"Mr. Skinner, can you open your eyes?" He waited until Skinner's eyes opened again and fixed dazedly on him, then said, "Mr. Skinner? Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital?" Skinner guessed hoarsely, eyes blinking rapidly.

"Good! And do you know who this is?" The doctor stood back and pulled Alex closer to the bed.

"Krycek."

Oh shit. Alex's hand tightened reflexively on Skinner's. He'd forgotten. Skinner had forgotten the damned cover story *he himself* had put in place and insisted on them all using. Neither he nor Mulder *ever* called Alex 'Krycek', except for very rare occasions in bed together. The Corcoran name and cover story had been drilled into them until Skinner was satisfied that there would be *no* slip ups. 

The Gunmen had created a beautiful electronic trail that led straight to an obvious covert ops sealed file which, should anyone care to breach their reasonable security precautions, held an impressive file of Major Corcoran's nonexistent accomplishments and all of Alex Krycek's actual personal data, right down to his retinal print and gene codes. Skinner had masterminded the entire operation and Alex had been deeply touched by the painstaking care taken to safeguard him. And now the man who'd crafted it had forgotten...what else had he forgotten?

"No, Mr. Skinner. This is Mr. Corcoran. Do you remember him?" The doctor prompted, shining a penlight in first one, then the other of Skinner's eyes.

"Not dressed like that he's not. Krycek," Skinner insisted muzzily and Alex wanted to laugh aloud. Instead, he just gripped Skinner's hand tighter and was profoundly reassured by the answering squeeze he got. 

At the doctor's questioning look, Alex said, "It's an old... nickname. He knows who I am. He's fine." Then he had to laugh in relief.

"Where's Mulder?" Skinner mumbled.

"Chiapas."

"What the hell's he doing there?" the man in the bed asked irritably and batted at the doctor's hand as his ears were peered into.

"You tell me, Walt. I leave town for two weeks and suddenly he's chasing little green men in Mexico and you're taking swan dives off of roofs."

"Gray." Skinner's eyes closed as the doctor took his blood pressure in the arm which Alex wasn't gripping. "Little gray men," he clarified. Then his eyes opened again and fixed on Alex. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be...out there," he finished lamely, eyebrows knitting with the effort of thinking around his concussion.

Exactly the question Alex hadn't wanted to answer and knew he would have to when he arrived back home three weeks earlier than he'd ever returned before. Four years it had been going on now. Four years since he'd come to live in the big house set down in the dunes of Eastham. Four years since he'd become Alex Corcoran, CPA, member of the Lighthouse Restoration Committee, the Chamber of Commerce, the Businessmen's Association, treasurer of the Hatch Foundation, Mulder's half brother and Skinner and Mulder's lover. Four years in which, every autumn, he'd disappear for over a month, sometimes longer. 'Alex Corcoran' would be left behind as easily as his wardrobe and Alex would again be someone very different, someone who knew how to move through the darkest shadows without coming to grief, someone who relished the world beyond the place where the sidewalks ended.

Skinner and Mulder had accepted his need to escape every once in a while. Mulder even made jokes about it and misquoted Kipling's Just So Stories at him, calling him "The Rat Who Walked By Himself". Mulder and Skinner pretended not to worry about him as he left and Alex pretended not to notice their distress. He no longer doubted his welcome home, when he washed up unkempt and oddly refreshed by his wanderings. He enjoyed bringing back peculiar artifacts and letting Skinner and Mulder guess where he'd been. Skinner would patch his minor wounds and Mulder would look carefully into his eyes until he saw the balance restored and then everything would return to normal for a while. Until he needed that next walk into the wild.

But this time, not unlike last year's foray, Alex had become aware of something nagging at him even as he walked carelessly through some of the most unsavory and free zones in the world. He had become aware of the ties that bound him here, to this little town on Cape Cod. After a few days, he had become aware that he did not resent those ties. And then one cold, dusty day in Samarkhand, he had found himself suddenly turning around in the market place and heading for home, weeks ahead of schedule. He had stared out the dirt-caked window of the bus that carried him back along the Silk Road and realized that this had been his last "Walk By Himself". Three days later, he had walked through the kitchen door of the empty house on the dunes to hear the phone ringing, telling him that Skinner lay unconscious, perhaps dying, in the hospital. 

"I came home," Alex said lamely. Skinner only smiled, eyes closed again. "Good," he said, then appeared to fall asleep.

One CAT scan, a battery of tests, a knee brace, a set of crutches and one overnight observation later, Alex Corcoran was able to take a very grouchy Walter Skinner home. 

Alex was leaning against the doorjamb, watching Skinner dress. He kept turning Skinner's gun over and over in his hand, wrapped in its plastic personal effects bag. The emergency room staff had bagged it along with Skinner's ring, watch, wallet and Swiss Army knife. It had left a bruise the size of Alex's hand in the small of Skinner's back. Alex's lip curled. Careful Skinner always went armed, even when he was slaloming down some other joker's roof. He wanted to laugh. Or shake the man until his teeth rattled.

Skinner had been tersely polite to the nursing staff and barely civil to Alex, who had sat by his bedside, brought him fresh clothes and his spare set of glasses and a cup of the best French Roast the local coffee place had to offer this morning. Alex finally lost his temper; he was suffering from jet lag, lack of sleep, a disquieting new knowledge about himself, and the after effects of worrying about the man who was currently complaining about the amount of cream in his coffee. 

"What the hell is your problem, Skinner?"

The other man had looked up from struggling to pull his jeans over his knee brace. One side of his mouth had twisted up. "I don't like hospitals."

"No one does," Alex reminded him.

"And waking up in a hospital to see *you* hanging around...well, it brings back some unpleasant memories." Skinner's head had dropped and he was staring at the bulky brace on his knee as if it were a challenge he simply wasn't up to.

Shit. Whatever else you could say about Walter Skinner, he told the truth. Even if it was deep-frozen and came with sharp edges. Like that one. The reminder that Alex had once held Skinner's life in a palm-top computer, had played with it as if it were a video game...it wasn't a memory he was proud of. Skinner might have excused him, but he hadn't forgotten and what man could forgive that? Alex knew he was overtired when he started to open his mouth to say... what? Something foolish, no doubt.

Instead, he shoved the gun in his pocket, crossed the room and knelt down. There was a sharp ripping sound as he loosened the velcro straps of the brace and took it off. Then, carefully cradling the sprained knee in his hand, he drew Skinner's jeans up over the swollen joint. Skinner pulled his pants up the rest of the way, then Alex carefully pulled the splint on over the jeans, retightening it after smoothing the denim beneath it. He handed Skinner his crutches and said,

"Let's get out of here."

And Skinner, knowing Alex better than either man thought, nodded and said, 

"Let's go home, Krycek."

The drive home was silent. So was the slow journey from the driveway into the house, where Skinner let Alex take his coat and hang it up for him. Skinner didn't even speak to his dog, who capered around them joyfully. He merely reached down, leaning heavily on his crutches, patted the animal on the head and made his way slowly upstairs, Alex trailing behind him.

In the bedroom, Skinner stood, seemingly unable to decide what to do next. Alex gently pushed him toward the bed, making him sit down so he could take Skinner's shoes off. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex could see the other man's studiously blank expression and knew that he was hating the fact that he needed help. So Alex forbore teasing and went to get a glass of water.

Alex came back and handed it to Skinner, along with a Percodan. He felt a touch of unease when Skinner merely took the tablet and swallowed it without comment. This was the man who had to be browbeaten and, on one memorable occasion last spring, wrestled into taking cold tablets? Skinner sat, shoulders slumped, staring at the half-empty glass of water in his hand. When Alex gently took it from him, he said tonelessly, 

"I think I'd like to sleep for a while."

Four years and Alex had never seen Skinner so subdued. He was often quiet, a self-contained and restrained man, but he had never before seemed *faded*, as he did now. It was unnerving.

Alex slid his arm under Skinner's legs and helped to swing them onto the bed. While Skinner took off his glasses, Alex pulled the quilt over him, arranging it gently over the splinted knee. After a moment's thought, he carefully positioned two pillows under the swollen joint and got a half-smile of thanks. Mulder's huge cat came stalking up the bed to investigate. After sniffing thoroughly, Maxie touched his nose to Skinner's, then deliberately curled up against the large man's ribs and began to purr.

"Sleep, Walt." 

Skinner nodded, eyes already closed. Trying not to notice how pale the older man was, Alex brushed his fingers across the scratched forehead and got a fractional smile in reply. Then Skinner seemed to drop into sleep. Alex silently replaced Skinner's gun in the bedside table, then went downstairs in search of fortitude. The best he could do at 11 o'clock in the morning was a cup of very strong coffee and endless minutes spent on the phone, waiting for the satellite service to find Mulder's signal, somewhere on the planet. After twenty minutes of insipid hold music, he gave up in disgust.

He was being an idiot, he told himself. It was ridiculous. Skinner had merely been knocked unconscious and had a concussion and a sprain. He'd had worse before. Hell, Krycek had inflicted worse on him before this, and he'd sprung back every time. There was, he told himself, no reason for the mother-hen routine he was pulling. 

None, he mentally insisted, as he settled himself in the armchair beside the window in Mulder and Skinner's bedroom. "No reason at all," he growled under his breath, opening a book that had been on the night table on Skinner's side of the bed. To demonstrate his perfect unconcern, he propped his feet up on the windowsill and began reading at the bookmark, glancing up at the sleeper at the end of every page.

* * * 

It was the choked noise that woke him finally. Skinner knew he wasn't going to enjoy being awake as various parts of his body began checking in and letting him know exactly how badly they'd been treated. His head was pounding and he vaguely hoped it was the forerunner of a killer stroke. Any number of muscles were yelping accompaniment to the dull throbbing fire in his left knee. "Oh, shit," he murmured, slowly remembering what had happened. Maxie got up and sat beside his shoulder, offering an interrogative chirp. There was a stirring, then Alex came and leaned over him. The two sets of green eyes peering questioningly at him made him chuckle roughly, then groan as the vibrations seemed to pluck at every abused fiber in his back and side.

"How do you feel?"

"Wasted and miserable. I didn't know it was possible to feel this bad and still be this strung out. I hate Percodan." Strangely enough, his bitching seemed to reassure Alex and the other man began to look more cheerful as he asked,

"What do you want?"

"Bathroom, water and a bullet, right between the eyes."

Alex laughed at the mordant tone and helped him to haul himself upright and drag himself into the bathroom. Then he poured three glasses of water into him before steering him back to bed. Since it was now after one o'clock, Alex decided it was time for him to eat and ignored any feeble protests that Skinner made. He disappeared downstairs to fix a tray before Skinner could at least get him to bring his book back from where he'd left it across the room.

So instead, Skinner lay there and considered the watery gray light on the ceiling and the patterns it made. Then he spent some time counting the cat's whiskers and remembering how much he hated narcotics and wondering whether or not he could take another painkiller before he chewed his throbbing leg off in desperation. Jesus, being shot hadn't hurt this much, had it?

Alex came back with a bowl of stew and another Percodan, which he swallowed eagerly. Alex had settled back into the armchair across the room, his own lunch untouched on the windowsill beside him.

"You OK?" Skinner asked, startling the other man out of his reverie.

"Yeah, Walt, I'm fine. I haven't fallen off of anything recently." Skinner noted the snide tone and wondered what Alex was covering up.

"You're home early," he said conversationally, testing the waters. Yup, that was it, he thought, as he watched Krycek's shoulders tense another fraction.

"Ran out of money," Alex said shortly.

"You have a platinum card," Skinner reminded him, putting aside his half-eaten bowl. Alex merely shrugged and Skinner studied his sullen profile for a few minutes before asking,

"What were you reading when I woke up?"

"Nothing." 

Skinner wondered if Alex knew what a bad liar he'd become. "Looks like my book. Can I have it?"

Alex grabbed the book, brought it over to him, then grabbed the dirty dishes and strode jerkily out of the room before Skinner could say another word. Feeling the Percodan kicking in again, Skinner let the book flop open to the page Krycek had been reading before he'd left it face down on the windowsill when Skinner had awakened. He read no more than a few lines before he guessed what had caused Krycek's full-scale retreat.

/Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need - a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink.../ 

When he recalled the title, he wanted to chuckle again, but he remembered how little he'd enjoyed the results last time. "Three Men in a Boat". Right. If Jerome Jerome could see this carnival funhouse reflection of domestic peace, the man would be spinning in his grave. Skinner couldn't help it; he laughed aloud and put up with the resultant twinges and aches. 

He sobered as he realized that Alex was going through yet another crisis of... what? Faith? Self-discovery? Identity? The former assassin had been remarkably stable, given his past, other than his annual voyages of self occlusion. Skinner had never been in any doubt as to what Alex was doing when he left them; he was protecting the last wild corner of himself from them and their perniciously domestic influence. Mulder counseled space and quiet for Krycek, so Skinner had followed his lead and they had never asked, tailed or pressed Alex for details. And Alex had continued to disappear for over a month every year ... until now.

Skinner's head was aching more than before it seemed, so he decided to stop thinking about the problem until he and Mulder could hash it through together. Which started him wondering where his lover was and why he hadn't heard from him and he fell asleep before he was able to even consider reaching for the bedside phone.

* * * 

Alex spent the afternoon fending off Skinner's well-wishers and wondering where the hell Mulder was. Barbara Hatch sent an entire gourmet catered meal to help "dear Walter" keep up his strength. Despite her very real respect for them all, she remained deeply convinced that none of the three men, ex-FBI agents or not, were actually capable of looking after themselves. Apparently, most of the volunteer fire department members and their neighbors were equally persuaded -- cakes, chicken soup, fresh-baked bread and other provender kept appearing at the door, held by gruff, weatherbeaten EMT's and firemen, fishermen and craftsfolk. After twelve well-wishing calls in twenty minutes, Alex just unplugged the phone and dropped onto the couch in weary amazement.

Neighbors. Friends. Social contacts. How had they become so ... normal? Skinner was very popular in his own quiet way, a gentle, courteous man with a no-nonsense attitude -- the natives loved him and respected his reserve, so like their own. Mulder was so quirky and harmless and brilliant that they loved him, too. Everyone loves an exuberant eccentric and highly successful writer; he added local color without adding to the local police blotter. But the very fact that *he*, Alex, knew all these people by name, that these cheerfully normal people all asked after him and seemed genuinely concerned when they saw his drawn features, for once lacking his trademark sharp grin...  
.

For four years, Alex had had a great deal of fun playing the persona of 'Alex Corcoran', Mulder's half-brother and model citizen. He had enjoyed dressing the part of an upscale New England professional and he had managed a number of investment portfolios into some very healthy financial ground, his own, Skinner's and Mulder's among them. He had attended the appropriate social functions, become a member of the correct business entities and fraternities and had even developed a respectable handicap at golf.

He had enjoyed his other role as Mulder and Skinner's secret lover, as well. While one or two close associates suspected that there was *something* unusual in their domestic arrangements, most of their circle of acquaintance had taken him at face value and industriously threw every single woman of marriageable age at him. The more canny among them also pushed eligible bachelors at him, but he had gently turned away all prospects, hinting darkly at some great romantic tragedy in his past. 

All of which allowed him to occasionally share Mulder and Skinner's bed without worrying about bringing someone else's medical history or psychopathology into the equation. He knew that Mulder would prefer to have him beside them every night, but he kept his own room, needing to have some place of retreat for himself. 

Sometimes, Mulder would come to him deep in the night; he had learned not to fear those times of silent communion, shattering as they could be. Rarer still, but no less sweet, those times when Skinner came to him alone, sharing his own darkness with the one who could understand it best. Most treasured, the riotous times when the three of them would love one another into exhaustion, two of them ganging up on the third, laughing alliances shifting with a single stroke, a hard kiss. That, too, was Alex Corcoran's life.

'Corcoran' was a mask, protective coloration, as much as his 'Krycek' or 'Arntzen' identities had been. But neither of those men had ever had the solid, peaceful, smoothly timbred life that 'Alex Corcoran' enjoyed. Hell, *loved*. He wondered if he wasn't actually becoming Alex Corcoran, going so deeply into the role that there would be nothing left of himself. And that terrified him.

  
He was still slumped on the couch, considering the cosmic joke of his life, when Mulder walked through the front door three hours later. Alex was so relieved and delighted to see him that he said the first thing that rose from his heart.

"Where the hell have you been?!? Do you ever turn your damned cell phone on?!"

Then he seized the rumpled-looking Mulder and kissed him hard, pouring out all his fear and need and desire into Mulder's mouth. When he finally let them both come up for air, it was to find Mulder's dazed eyes fixed on him, a goofy smile lurking on his lips as he said vaguely,

"Hi, honey, I'm home..."

"Walt's fine," Alex said before Mulder could ask. "He's upstairs, asleep."

Mulder's grin was dawn over the ocean and his next kiss was pure glory.

They sorted themselves out after a few minutes and Alex's hands had cataloged the fact that Mulder hadn't been eating too well, had some new bruises, and a long shallow scratch across his ribs. He also smelled like a swamp. In fact, he had a fair amount of dried mud on him, one way and another.

"What happened to you?"

"There was a flood...we were almost cut off when the river overflowed the banks. That's what happened to my phone. And half the equipment."

"So how'd you get here?" Alex asked, running his fingers through Mulder's gritty hair and grimacing at the residue.

"I...um, chartered a jet when I got to Mexico City."

Alex whistled silently as Mulder started up the stairs. "That's got to have cost you a small fortune."

"You," Mulder's voice floated back down to him.

"'Me', what?" 

"It cost you a fortune. I used your Platinum Card."

"Mulder!" And Alex chased the prodigal up the stairs.

But when he got to the bedroom door, he skidded to a halt, revenge forgotten in the tableau before him. Mulder was kneeling beside the bed, face hidden against Skinner's side, arms thrown around the big man. Skinner's hands were moving gently over Mulder's hair and shoulders and he was speaking very softly. Alex could see Mulder nod sometimes, but he kept his face hidden. It should have looked childish; it should have been ridiculous. Instead, Alex felt his lips trembling and his eyes filling and he stepped away from the doorway to lean against the wall in the hallway and regain some control of himself. Hadn't he elected himself the one who didn't fall apart for once, leaving that luxury to Mulder, who had propped him up through too many sleepless nights?

He heard the rumble of Skinner's voice answering some muffled question of Mulder's. "I'm glad you're home. Alex has been great, but I'm glad you're home, too." Warm feeling, hearing that "too", knowing that they were all home to one another. He silently blessed Skinner for that, then wanted to strangle the man in the next instant when he heard him laugh ruefully and say,

"Yeah, I did it this time, Fox. Knocked myself out for four or five hours and managed to stop breathing for a bit. The doctor was sure I was sliding into a coma. He said poor Alex almost put him through a wall when they told him I was coming out of it."

Oh shit. He hadn't had a chance to explain to Skinner what he'd told Mulder, and, more importantly, what he *hadn't* told him. He saw the set of Mulder's shoulders and knew he was in deep trouble. Stepping into the room, he said placatingly,

"Mulder...."

And then the other man was off his knees and had him slammed up against the doorframe. Alex's head smacked the wood and the room went remote for a moment before he could focus on the hard pressure of Mulder's arm on his windpipe and the furious hissing in his face. Oh good - deja vu.

"You son of a bitch! You lied to me. You said he was fine and all the time you *knew* he wasn't!!"

"Mulder...." Alex choked, wondering if this would be the time he just let loose and coldcocked Mulder.

Mulder grabbed his shirt front in both hands and bounced him back against the wall again. Apparently not, Alex thought again as he felt the molding digging into his spine. "You lied to me!" Mulder spit. His eyes were blazing and Alex could still see the faint swelling where he'd gently bitten Mulder's lip when they'd kissed just a few moments ago. 

There was a low rumbling noise in the room which Alex dimly identified as Skinner's voice. He just kept staring at that deep red spot on Mulder's lip. Skinner's voice got stronger, and the words finally penetrated.

"I guess you can take the boy out of the abusive relationship but not the abuse out of the boy, eh, Mulder?" Skinner's voice was cool and precise, like a surgeon who knew exactly where to cut. Mulder's hands dropped away and he stared at Alex. Alex stared back for a moment, fingered the lump rising on the back of his head, then shoved Mulder out of the way and walked out of the room.

"I need some ice."

Behind him, he heard their voices; Mulder's, grating and hesitant, Skinner's deep and reassuring. He answered neither of them as he went downstairs for an ice pack and a drink. 

Home, indeed.

* * * 

"He was trying to help, Mulder. He didn't want you to worry."

"He lied to me!"

"Of course he did." Skinner sounded tired suddenly and Mulder knew it was because they had crossed and recrossed this ground in the past four years; usually, it was Mulder explaining Alex Krycek's rather unusual pathology to the reflexively honest Skinner. "It's what he does. And telling you the truth at that moment wouldn't have done a bit of good. You know that."

After a moment, Mulder nodded. He *did* know that. He also knew that he would have done exactly the same thing in Alex's place. But that didn't help dampen the flare of rage he had felt; it was old, left over from the many betrayals and lies. He hated that these wounds still lurked beneath the surface of his conscious mind, like land mines waiting for a stray thought to detonate him into the old violence again. Worst of all, he hated that it was usually Alex who would trigger the blasts.

"He doesn't lie to us without a good reason, Mulder."

"Or for fun," Mulder added dryly.

"But never about the important things," Skinner insisted, shifting restlessly against the headboard.

"Walt, you nearly died yesterday - that's important!" Mulder rearranged the pillows under Skinner's wounded leg.

"Fox, he knows you." Skinner's voice was very gentle.

Mulder scratched Maxie's ears as he pulled the bunched up quilt out from under the cat, then arranged it over Skinner. Finally he said, not looking up, "I know. I just hate being protected."

Finally, they had reached the root of the problem. Skinner leaned his head back and closed his eyes in gratitude. Every once in a while, he wondered if his life wouldn't be calmer if he'd just pursued his original retirement plan of becoming an alcoholic beach hermit instead of investing years in navigating the uncharted emotional wilderness of either one of his younger lovers. And himself, he added, as Mulder's fingers brushed down the side of his face. Calmer, yes, but then who would look at him like that? Would there be anyone to kneel beside him, to hold him tightly, to whisper half-heard words of love and need, as Mulder was doing now?

Calm is over-rated, he reminded himself, letting his lips brush against Mulder's dirty hair. "Go on," he said aloud. He felt Mulder sigh, the watched him unfold himself stiffly.

"If you hear shots downstairs...," Mulder said from the doorway.

"I'll assume the status quo has been restored." 

Mulder gave a half grin, then left Skinner to ruffle the cat's fur and appreciate the fact that Maxie had no outstanding issues beyond his constant need to drink out of the water glass beside the bed.

  
When Mulder trailed into the kitchen, Alex was making dinner, a half-empty glass of scotch beside him on the counter.

"Alex..." 

Alex pivoted around him and reached for the cucumbers.

"Forget it, Mulder. At least you didn't pull a gun on me this time."

Mulder passed him the vegetables and grimaced. "Lost it in the river. Another Glock bites the dust. The insurance company is gonna love this claim."

"I'm surprised they don't have you nationally blacklisted." Alex handed him the salad bowl and a knife. Mulder reached out and froze Alex with a single touch on his wrist. Their eyes met and they looked steadily at one another, then Mulder cocked his head. Alex nodded once.

And everything was back to normal. 

* * * 

So normal, in fact, that after eating the gourmet meal Barbara Hatch had sent and playing two games of chess with Skinner, then maneuvering him back up to bed and tucking Mulder in next to him, all without hearing Mulder's voice once, Alex had gone to his own room and set his internal clock for a two hour nap. He had awakened at around 1 am, as planned, and pulled on his jeans and a sweatshirt. Then he went down the hall and looked in on Skinner. The man was sleeping deeply, with the dog and cat for company, but no Mulder. Alex grinned and awarded himself two points for knowing Mulder as well as he did, then went downstairs. No Mulder in the kitchen or living room. So he went out onto the porch. The boards were cold under his bare feet, but he didn't go back in to get shoes. 

Jackpot. 

Mulder was leaning on the railing, staring off at the ocean, silvered by the moonlight, the distant sound of waves on the beach louder than the breath that steamed in the still night air. He was also standing there shirtless, wearing only his jeans - idiot! - so Alex came up behind him and wrapped his arms around the chilled flesh. He rested his cheek on Mulder's shoulder and waited. After a few moments, one of Mulder's hands came up to rest on his forearm where it lay across his chest. After another wait, during which Alex was sure his feet had frozen to the porch, Mulder took a deep breath and spoke.

"Alex, I'm sorry."

Alex awarded himself another two points for knowing that these would be Mulder's first words. Mulder must have felt him grin, because he shifted restively and growled, "What are you laughing at?"

"You," Alex said and hugged him a little tighter. "You're such a source of stability, Mulder. I always know what you'll do."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Alex grinned again, pleased. Mulder no longer sounded angst-ridden, he sounded annoyed. That was much better, in Alex's opinion, even though his hand no longer rested on Alex's arm.

"I find it very comforting to know that you'll occasionally get so pissed at me that you'll snap, we'll revert to our old patterns, then you'll wallow in guilt for two or three days."

"I'm glad I'm so predictable." Mulder's voice was icier than the air.

"It *is* one of your many charms," Alex agreed, and began to nuzzle at one goose-pimpled shoulder. He could feel Mulder's muscles vibrating with tension; the man's hands were gripping the railing until they were skeletal in the moonlight.

"I *hate* that I do that, just like He did."

There was no doubt in Alex's mind who 'He' was. Bill Mulder, alcoholic, might not have been Mulder's biological father, but Mulder was his son and bore the psychological scars to prove it. Once again, Alex was mildly pleased that he had been the one to remove Bill Mulder from the world and prevented him from inflicting any more harm on his nominal son.

"Mulder...." Alex said soothingly.

The other man shrugged out of Alex's arms and spun to face him, face shadowed, his eyes glittering in the uncertain light. "I lost it and tried to put you through a wall. That's no more or less than spousal abuse."

"I could have stopped you at any time." The words were flat, cool and unconcerned. They were also absolutely true.

"That's not the point! I lashed out at you in anger and you just took it -that's the *definition* of spouse abuse, for god's sake!"

Well. Alex gave Mulder *three* points for coming up with a new variation on an old refrain. Spouse abuse. He couldn't help it, he started chuckling.

"I'm serious, damn it!"

The man was so beautiful when he was so angry, so tortured, so wrong. Alex loved him more than he understood, all those twists and turns and intuitive leaps of logic that no one else could ever hope to predict.

"I know you are, Mulder. It's just that I don't think those definitions really work for us." He saw Mulder begin to draw breath to argue with him held up a hand. "It's just that who we are, what we've been and who we've become...they're so far from normal that I don't think you can use the standard definitions. You're beating yourself up over deviating from a societal norm that we couldn't even *hope* to achieve." He couldn't help it, he started to snicker again.

"So you're saying it's OK for me to lose it and slam you around occasionally because we're so fucked up that it's actually a sign of improved mental health?"

"Basically, yeah." Moving cautiously, Alex stepped closer to Mulder and slowly took him into his arms.

"What the hell have you been reading - Masochists Anonymous?"

"Azerbaijani train schedules. They leave you a lot of time to think."

"I'm sorry," Mulder whispered into his hair after a time.

"I know. I'm sorry that I had to lie to you."

"You'd do it again, wouldn't you?"

Alex didn't even bother to answer. He ran his hand over Mulder's marble-cold back and waited. In another moment, it came.

"Alex, do we have to stand out here any more? I'm freezing," in just the right tone of aggrieved that suggested that it had all been Alex's idea that they have their soul-search out here in the cold instead of the someplace warmer that Mulder would have chosen.

The balance restored, the evening's total score up to six points, Alex cheerfully resisted smacking Mulder's shivering ass. He steered him inside, back upstairs, stripped him then tucked him into his own bed before curling up around Mulder and stroking his hair until the tremors stopped. They fell asleep with no more words between them.

* * * 

Skinner was healing rapidly. He didn't need the Percodan after two days and the doctor was amazed at his recovery rate. "Amazing for a man of your age," she said heartily, well-pleased with her patient's progress. 

Alex and Mulder were less pleased. One week after his accident and Skinner was up and around on his crutches, working on small pieces in his shop and nearly non-verbal. He would reply to direct queries or when challenged but was otherwise silent. More disturbing still, he had stopped touching either Mulder or Alex, except in the most perfunctory ways. He would endure their caresses but seemed more annoyed than soothed as they attempted to cosset and pet him. He was brooding about something but neither of the other two could discover it. Tempers got touchier as their consternation grew.

The night Skinner asked them both to sleep in Alex's room was the final straw.

* * * 

Mulder was sitting in the window seat, staring out at the Hunter's Moon which hung low and full over the dunes. Alex had thrown himself back onto the bed and was frowning ferociously at the ceiling. A chill wind was hissing around the eaves of the house.

"We can't go on like this."

"And we can't shoot him," Alex pointed out.

"Tempting, but no," Mulder smiled for a moment. "What the hell is his problem?" 

"You mean besides nearly dying in the stupidest way possible?" Alex was still angry about being scared like that and tended to snarl whenever he was reminded of the day he had spent staring at the emergency room walls.

"Yes. He was fine for a couple of days there. He was tired, he hurt, but he was OK. His mood was good. Then...nothing. He stops talking, stops eating and won't let either of us near him. What happened?"

"He was OK when I took him to the doctor," Alex offered. "I mean, he bitched and moaned for a while about the doctor calling him an 'old man'. She didn't actually, but she reminded him that he wasn't exactly immortal. So did I, for that matter. I told him he wasn't going to see fifty again and he was goddamned lucky he wasn't dead, so he ought to shut up and enjoy the fact that he was still around to be bitching."

There was a silence from the direction of the window seat, the suggestion of a man thinking very hard. Mulder rubbed his hands over his face, then swore.

Alex sat up on his elbow. "What?"

"I'd hate to think it's that simple, but it might just be. That was Tuesday, right? Well, I spent the evening carefully hinting around the idea that he might want to start passing on jobs that required him to climb around other people's roofs."

Alex pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You think...?"

Mulder nodded slowly. "Then I suggested he might want to turn in his stethoscope and jump kit. Stop being an EMT."

"Oh shit. What did he say?"

"He didn't say anything." 

Alex groaned and flopped back down on the bed. "So, basically, what you're telling me is that his doctor and both his lovers spent the day telling him he was getting old and fragile and that he ought to just wrap himself up and sit by the fire?"

"Yup," Mulder said quietly. "That's about the long and short of it."

They were silent for a time, then Alex said reflectively, "Actually, I'm sort of surprised that he didn't shoot either one of us."

"What the hell are we going to do about it?" 

The two men listened to the wind wailing outside for a while, then Alex said,

"I have an idea."

* * * 

Walter Skinner knew that he was sulking. He was sitting in bed, still wearing shorts and a tee shirt, arms crossed over his chest, watching the moon move across one window and into the next. His knee was still propped up on a pillow, but it gave him barely a twinge when he moved it and was hardly noticeable when he didn't.

He'd spent two days telling himself he was depressed. Then he spent another day or so being positive that it was a delayed midlife crisis. But tonight, when he saw the kicked-puppy look in Mulder's eyes after he'd been asked to sleep in Alex's room, that's when Skinner knew he was simply sulking. Someone had once told him that depression was merely anger without enthusiasm. What he was going through was closer to indignation without zeal.

Face it, Walter. You *are* over fifty. Most men your age wouldn't bounce back from an injury like this as quickly as you have. 

The doctor was right. 

Plenty of younger men had fallen half the distance he had and wound up dead. Hell, after half the things he'd done in his life, just to be pushing 55 was a fucking miracle he should be celebrating every day. 

Alex was right.

He didn't even like roof work; he'd only gone up to help John out before winter got good and going. He'd be more than happy to never climb a ladder again, in fact. 

Mulder was right. 

But he'd be damned if he gave up being an EMT.

Sulking, he told himself, is unattractive at any age. Especially in someone your age, he thought and grinned wryly at his empty bedroom. Why Mulder and Alex had put up with it as long as they had, he didn't know. But it was time for it to end. Besides, a few days ago, they had both hinted at a rather unorthodox cure for the blues. He wondered if they might still be willing to demonstrate, if he apologized nicely. He was reaching for the cane he'd graduated to this morning when they both came into the room.

He knew immediately that something was up. He took a deep breath, wondering if he could head off the scolding he knew he deserved. When Alex shook his head warningly, he sighed and knew he was in for it. But they said nothing; just stood together in the middle of the room and looked at him.

Alex put his arm around Mulder's neck and they leaned in toward one another, still gazing at him. Their heads were pressed together and, barefoot, in jeans and flannel shirts, both men ought to have looked wholesome and innocently charming. Instead, there was a sudden deep thrum of sensuality in the room and Walter wondered if it weren't his libido coming out of its sulk just a little behind the rest of him.

"I'm..." he began when Alex cut him off with a sharp motion of his artificial hand.

"Don't say anything, Walter. Not a word. Just watch. Got it?"

Skinner nodded, bemused. At least until Alex used the hand around Mulder's neck to urge his head around. His two lovers stood kissing hungrily, no more than five feet away, at the edge of the pool of light thrown by the one lamp. 

Jesus, they were beautiful. Mulder was lean and strong, moving his hands over his partner with a lazy grace. Alex was stockier, more muscular; his one-handed caresses had a fierceness held in careful check. He pulled back for a moment and looked deeply into Mulder's eyes. A question must have been asked, because Mulder smiled and nodded agreement, then nuzzled at Alex's forehead. Skinner caught the edge of one of Alex's demon grins as he took a step behind Mulder, but by the time the younger man looked up again, his expression was blank and he looked intensely focused. Alex's intentions became clear in the next moment. He began nibbling at Mulder's neck as his right hand came up to slowly unbutton Mulder's shirt, one button at a time.

Skinner couldn't look away, which was obviously the point. His punishment was going to be watching Alex seduce Mulder just out of arm's reach. He deserved it, he knew, just as he knew that one of Alex's rules would be that Skinner could not leave, could not move, could not touch himself. Skinner swallowed and settled himself back against the headboard, wordlessly agreeing to everything. 

Mulder was arching his neck and breathy little whimpers were audible as Alex ran his teeth lightly across the sweet spot behind Mulder's left ear that Skinner had shown him with such delight over four years ago. It was a constant source of fascination; Mulder could be reduced to incoherency with just a small investment of time and effort in a two inch area of skin. There had been a memorable traffic jam trying to get back onto the Cape on a Friday afternoon last year, during which Alex, who had gotten bored in the back seat, had livened up the entire afternoon by stroking, caressing and otherwise teasing that spot on Mulder's neck. Trapped in the passenger seat, Mulder could do nothing but suffer deliciously. Skinner could still recall the exact timbre of the moan Mulder gave when Alex had wet his fingers in his mouth, then run them in circles just behind Mulder's ear.

It was the same moan he gave now as Alex suckled for a moment, then released him. Mulder's eyes met Skinner's for a moment, glazed and dark, then he closed them again, a slight smile on his lips. Alex slipped the last of Mulder's shirt buttons from its hole, then let his hand drift up Mulder's chest to his shoulder and under the loosened flannel. With a long caress, Alex slid the shirt off, drawing his hand behind Mulder's neck to ease it off the other shoulder and down his arms, where, cuffs still buttoned, it tangled around his wrists. Alex kissed Mulder's temple, whispered something in his ear, then moved away from him. Alex took two steps and stood in front of Skinner, his hand out. Quietly, he said, "Give me some oil."

There was a bottle of massage oil still standing on the bedside table, left over from one of Mulder's numerous recent attempts to cosset him. Skinner poured a small amount into Alex's hand and looked hard at him, trying to gauge his mood. But Alex's face was in shadow and there was nothing to see but the glitter of his eyes, which could have meant anything at all. So Skinner looked beyond him to Mulder and caught his breath at the sight.

Mulder stood just inside the golden circle of light cast by the bedside lamp. His hands were trapped behind him, still cuffed by his shirt. His eyes were closed, he was flushed and breathing fast. There was both pride and submission in his wide-legged stance, as if he were demanding to be ravished and yet knew there was nothing he could do to speed or hinder his tormentor.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" That same shadowed voice startled Skinner from his reverie. He could only nod, voiceless. Alex smiled a little, almost approvingly at him, then prowled back to where Mulder stood. Moving up behind him, Alex rubbed against him, bringing a gasp from Mulder. Alex soothed him by stroking his oiled hand across Mulder's chest, bracing Mulder's hip with his prosthetic hand. Excess oil trickled down Mulder's abdomen to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Skinner was mesmerized by the slow circling of Alex's strong hand over Mulder's skin, by the flicker of those oiled muscles as Mulder tried to take deeper, slower breaths, by the blown-sand sound of Alex's voice whispering to them both.

"You see him, Skinner? Are you really looking now?" Their eyes met for a moment and Skinner nodded. "This is what you didn't want earlier. Were you wrong?" Skinner nodded again, swallowing heavily. Mulder made a restive movement like a cat demanding a caress, and Alex turned his attention back to the man in his arms. "No one like you, Fox. There's no one in the world like you -- I know, I looked." Mulder's lips curled for a moment and he shook his head in amused denial. Alex's hand slid up to Mulder's throat and pulled his head around for a fiercely awkward kiss. "No one," he insisted softly and sealed his argument with a firm caress over the bulge in Mulder's faded jeans and a nip behind his ear. Mulder subsided with a whimper. 

Alex's oiled hand had left darkened patches on the crotch of Mulder's jeans. They fascinated Skinner as Mulder squirmed in Alex's arms, almost dancing as he was rubbed and licked, nipped and kissed. He gave a low tremulous moan as Alex's agile fingers slipped the button of his jeans open. Skinner heard himself echoing Mulder's whimper as that clever hand went exploring and returned into the light cradling Mulder's swollen cock and balls, easing them past the open zipper of his jeans. A few caresses with his slick hand and Mulder was a study in erotic abandonment, body arched, gleaming and heated, eyes closed, head thrown back to rest on Alex's shoulder, hands still caught behind his back.

"Skinner?" Alex offered softly.

"Please," he said hoarsely.

Alex looked at him carefully, then smiled in approval at what he saw. It was not a nice smile. Skinner became aware that he was panting and flushed, achingly hard and his fists were twisted in the comforter. "Never again, Skinner, do you understand? You don't do this ever again."

"Promise," Skinner whispered, neither understanding nor caring what he was pledging.

"Good boy," Alex said and gently urged Mulder the last few steps forward. When Skinner's fingers brushed down one thigh, Mulder opened his eyes and smiled. Then he was leaning forward and Skinner was catching his shoulders and rolling him over his own body to land on the bed without straining Skinner's injured knee.

Propped on one elbow, Skinner looked down the long hot length of Mulder's body beside him before growling and rolling on top of him. Mulder's hands were still tangled in his shirt, trapped at his sides, so there was nothing and no one to stop Skinner as he rioted down Mulder's body. He kissed, licked, nipped, scraped, laved and nuzzled him. The faint dusty-sweet taste of the massage oil became a top note to the musky perfume of Mulder's own body as Skinner lapped at the clear drops that slipped from Mulder's cock. Mulder moaned when Skinner began sucking and humming around his flesh and he shouted as he came moments later, twisting and crying out as he poured down Skinner's throat.

Skinner, favoring his injured leg, crawled awkwardly back up to kiss Mulder deeply. Then he leaned back and brushed silvering hair away from Mulder's damp forehead and said, "Sorry I've been such an asshole."

Mulder smiled dreamily and said, "You have been, but you apologize with real style. I'm inclined to forgiveness."

From behind them, Alex growled, "You're too easy on him, Mulder."

"And what do you suggest, Alex?" Mulder asked, grinning.

Skinner barely had time to register Alex kneeling beside them when his shoulder was seized and he was flipped onto his back. Then Alex was looming, hard and hot and dark, over him. Skinner felt a ripple of something that was a distant kin to fear as he looked into Alex's autumn green eyes. Then Alex's mouth had seized his and his lips were being bruised with the fierce caress and he welcomed the pain as simply another part of the wild sweetness of it all. The younger man was hard and heavy on top of him, rocking his hips across Skinner's groin, matching hardness to hardness. Without thinking, Skinner's arms came up to hold Alex more tightly against him, breath hissing through his teeth when Alex bit at his throat, groaning when he felt the jolt through his cock.

Alex slid down some and kept up that maddening friction against him, never letting up long enough for him to catch his breath or take control. He bit at one of Skinner's nipples through his tee shirt and the wet heat made him cry out and toss his head, writhing with pleasure so sharp-edged it was nearly pain. His head came up against something hard and he was suddenly stilled, caught between Alex's forearm and his prosthetic. Alex's eyes burned above him. 

"Let's be very clear here, Skinner. You don't *ever* do this to us again." Skinner nodded, eyes snared in the deep forest gaze above his, captured in the heat that held him down. "You don't ever lock us out again. You *belong* to us, do you understand?" Alex emphasized his point by bringing his knee up to rub firmly against Skinner's cock, so hard and so good that he almost came --and then Alex moved it away again. When Skinner sobbed once, hands tightening with bruising force on his hips, Alex was finally satisfied. He leaned down to kiss Skinner very gently this time and brought his knee back up to press firmly against Skinner's cock while rocking against him once, twice, then once more before the older man exploded with a strangled shout, triggering Alex's own wash of pleasure.

After a few minutes, Alex pulled himself away from Skinner with a grimace. He sat up on the edge of the bed and flexed his stiff shoulders then considered his own damp jeans and Skinner's soaked shorts with a complacently curled lip. "Well, that was something else," he said hoarsely. Skinner just shook his head in blind wonder.

"It certainly was," Mulder agreed. "Now, you wanna untie me here?"

It took a few moments to untangle Mulder and strip them all, then a trip to the bathroom for a washcloth to mop up the worst of the stickiness on all three of them. After a moment's careful observation of Skinner's face, Alex went back and got a glass of water and a couple of painkillers. Mulder had curled up on Skinner's shoulder and the two appeared to be dozing. At Alex's nudge, Skinner opened his eyes. He took in Alex's uncompromising expression, saw the water and the pills he held out, then took them with unprecedented meekness.

Alex smiled at him, then turned to take away the glass. Skinner's hand caught his and held him, his expression just as uncompromising as Alex's had been. "You're home now, Alex," he said quietly and tugged on his hand. Knowing he was well and truly caught, Alex put the glass on the bedside table, then slipped into bed next to Skinner. Skinner turned onto his left side to give Alex a little more room. Mulder made a sleepy noise of protest and snuggled back up against him. Alex turned out the light and the room was flooded with moonlight and shadows. Skinner ran a gentle hand over Alex's face, cupping his jaw for a moment in a gesture so tender that Alex's breath caught in his throat. Then all was quiet for a time.

"Still feeling old?" Alex asked drowsily in the dark.

"Unh unh," Skinner mumbled. "Dead," he clarified.

"Good," Alex smiled and fell asleep.

***

Yup, Skinner thought, calm was over-rated. So was youth. Then he snuggled a little closer to Alex, pulled Mulder's arm over his hip and fell asleep.

<Finis>

Feedback appreciated at: 

 

* * *

 


End file.
